Brother's Keeper
by Clowns or Midgets
Summary: Lucifer has risen and the end is nigh. Now it's Sam and Dean fighting against the forces of Heaven and Hell, each of whom want something from the Winchesters. Part 4 of the Brotherhood series
1. Chapter 1

**Hey! Welcome back to the Brotherhood world. Thank you all for your patience in the weeks it's taken me to get my ass in gear to finish the story and get it to you. It's here now though, and I hope you enjoy.**

 **Jenjoremy has once again saddled up to beta this for me, and Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2 have been my pre-reader/cheerleader team. Thanks so much ladies.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter One**_

Sam was shaking so hard Dean could feel his chest juddering against his palm. His eyes were wide and there was an expression of absolute horror on his face. Dean was sure his own expression must have mirrored it.

There was a whine of noise, the sound Dean associated with angels, and it was fast becoming a roar. Lucifer was coming.

Dean tugged Sam's arm and tried to lead him to the door, but Sam seemed frozen in place, staring at the light streaming from the floor.

"Sam!" he shouted desperately. "We have to go!"

"No time," Castiel shouted, stepping into their space. He reached for their hands where they were clasped together on Sam's chest and then Dean felt the dizzying sensation of being moved through space without his impetus.

When they came to a stop, a split-second and a lifetime later, Dean found himself looking around Bobby's library. The man himself was sitting on the couch across the room, a mug of coffee in his hand and the TV playing some quiz show. He started to his feet when he caught sight of them. "What the hell? What's happened?" he asked worriedly.

Dean didn't answer. His attention was still with Sam and his shuddering body; the shaking seemed to have grown even worse since they left the chapel rather than improved.

"Sammy," he said softly, "take a breath."

Sam obeyed, but the breath was too fast; it was followed by another just as quick and another until he was panting. In contradiction to Sam's panic, Dean felt calm, icily calm as if he had been numbed. His mind fixed on one thing: take care of Sam.

He pulled out a chair and maneuvered it behind Sam. "Sit down," he said in that same soft voice, and when Sam didn't react, he spoke firmly, harshly, and Sam obeyed. Dean thought he understood. Sam didn't respond as well to emotion or kindness as he did a command. That was how John Winchester had operated most of the time. It was natural that Sam would connect with that now.

Now that Sam was sitting, Dean was less worried he would drop, but his breaths were still coming too quickly and he was still shaking. If Dean had been dealing with a child, or almost anyone else, he would have used his own breaths for Sam to measure against and calm himself, but this wasn't a child; this was Sam Winchester, and he was different.

Dean kneeled in front of him and put his hands on Sam's shoulders then shook him as hard as he could. "Sam!" he barked. "Hold your breath!"

Again, Sam obeyed. It was as if it was hardwired into him to accept commands if they were given strongly enough. After nearly three years in each other's company again, Dean had finally found the way to make Sam do what he needed. It would have made him sad had the situation been any less dire. As it was, he could only feel relief when Sam's jaws clamped shut and his breath stalled.

"That's good," Dean said. "Now let it out."

Sam did, and the next breath he took was calmer. He breathed slowly in and out, calmer and easier until Dean stopped worrying about that and turned his attention to Sam's still shaking body. There was nothing he could do to command that away, he knew, so he stood and laid a hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam didn't shrug him away as he would have once.

"Bobby, can you get Sam a drink please?" he asked.

Looking thoroughly bewildered, Bobby headed towards his kitchen glancing back at Sam over his shoulder. Less then a minute later, he handed Dean a generous glass of whiskey and Dean held it to Sam. Sam grabbed at it like he was drowning and it was a life raft, but he didn't drink. He bought it to his mouth but then lowered it again and closed is eyes.

Castiel, who had remained a silent observer until then, stepped forward and said, "Perhaps it would help you, Sam."

Sam shook his head mutely.

"What happened?" Bobby repeated his original question, demanding an answer with his tone alone.

Dean didn't know how to put what had happened into words. How could he explain angels, heavenly rooms, demon blood, broken seals, Lucifer rising through that bright light? There was nothing he could say that wouldn't destroy whatever outward calmness Sam had gained.

Castiel didn't have the same awareness. "Lucifer is free," he said bluntly.

Bobby paled. "No! How?"

Sam lurched to his feet, still pale and shaking but animated now, his face twisted with anger. "I did it! I killed her! I killed her and set him free and now the world is going to burn!" He threw his glass of whiskey at the wall, smashing the glass and spilling the liquor. "I've killed us all!"

Dean had never seen Sam like this before. He'd been angry when Dean made his deal. He had been scared when they were facing Lilith in that auditorium, and he had cried out of desperation before, but Dean had never seen him lose control like _this_. There was no sign of the mask. There was no inner calm to get him through. He was a man possessed and Dean was afraid for him.

He wanted the mask back, even though he hated it, because it would mean Sam was in control. As bad as things were, as screwed as they were, Dean wouldn't be so afraid if Sam was Sam again. It always felt as though they could get through anything when Sam was there, because he was the best. He would take care of it.

"Okay," Bobby said carefully, "the world is ending… when?" He glanced at the TV where a woman was jumping up and down having just won a SUV. "Doesn't seem like it's ending now."

"It depends," Castiel said.

"On what?" Sam asked sinking back into his chair and peering up at the angel.

"On how long one man can withstand. Lucifer is an angel, an archangel. He needs a vessel like any other. At the moment, he is just grace on the wind. He will not be able to act until he has form."

"That doesn't sound too hopeful," Dean said. "I know vessels aren't exactly common, but they are out there. What's to say he won't find one today?"

Castiel's mouth pressed into a thin line for a moment. "He needs a specific vessel. There is only one _true_ vessel for him in the world now. He may be able to find a temporary vessel, but he will not be able to stay in it indefinitely. And he will not be able to fool the vessel. He is bound by the rules of our kind. We must give name to gain consent. The vessel will know who he is allowing in."

"Okay," Dean said, feeling slightly comforted. "That's not so bad. I mean, what kind of man would let the _devil_ in?"

"I do not know," Castiel said.

"So we're banking on this vessel having a moral code and sense of self preservation," Bobby said, nodding. "That sounds a little hopeful."

"Yes," Castiel said. "Hope is important."

"Say he does get his vessel," Sam said quietly, "what happens next? Are we blinking out in a rush of white heavenly light or will he take his time?"

"Lucifer's crime was to refuse God," Castiel said. "God wanted angels to bow to His new creation: humanity. Among all the angels, there was only one that refused, and that was Lucifer. Because of that, Michael cast him out of Heaven. Lucifer will not share the planet with humans now. If he was to gain his vessel, he would destroy the world as you know it."

"Like nuke the earth?" Sam said.

"I don't think he would choose nuclear weapons. The earth itself he loves, and he will create his paradise here for him alone to enjoy," Castiel said seriously. "But he would rid it of all humanity somehow to create that paradise."

"That makes no sense," Dean said. "Zachariah was gung-ho for the apocalypse because _he_ would have paradise. If Lucifer isn't going to be sharing, how does that work?"

"That is where Michael comes in. It is foretold there will be a battle between God's two greatest children—Michael and Lucifer. Michael must kill Lucifer."

"Well that sounds like good news," Bobby said, relieved. "We've just got to wait for Michael to do his thing and we'll be in the clear."

Castiel looked at him almost sympathetically. "If Michael and Lucifer do battle, the shockwave will be massive. Millions will die."

Sam took an unsteady breath and looked away from them all to stare out of the window. Dean thought the tremors he could see rippling through his brother were anger now and not shock.

"So you're saying it's half or all?" Bobby said.

Castiel nodded. "Yes, that is what I am saying."

Dean could feel his pulse pounding through his veins, rushing in his ears, and his stomach rolled with nausea. This was so much, too much to take. It wasn't Yellow-Eyes, which was revenge, or the deal, which was the price of Sam's life. Those things destroyed a handful of people not a world. This was everyone, perhaps, and if not, as if that was a comfort, it was millions. How were they supposed to stop that?

"I need some air," Sam said roughly. "I'll be right back."

Dean watched him walk through the back door, his steps almost staggering. He let it swing shut behind him, and for a moment, there was silence in the room.

"When he says he killed her…" Bobby began.

"Lilith," Dean said. "She was the last seal—killing her freed Lucifer. He didn't know. I didn't even know until it was too late. He thought he was saving the world. It was down to the wire and we were desperate. I would have done the exact same thing, anyone would." He looked at Bobby, daring him to challenge his words.

Bobby raised his hands. "I'm not arguing. I'm just thinking, how's he going to cope with that?"

"How's anyone?"

"No, that's not what I mean. I'm asking how is _Sam_ going to get through this when he is already so damaged? How are we going to help?"

Dean raked a hand over his face. The same question had occurred to him. Sam had been through so much. He'd lost his mother before he could even remember her. He lost John to a deal and then watched Dean being torn apart by hellhounds. He blamed himself for all of those deaths. Now the fate of the world was on his shoulders. How was he going to keep going on knowing what he had done?

As if Sam had heard Dean's unspoken question, he answered with the roar of an engine and the skidding of tires against the gravel. Dean got onto the back porch in time to see the tail of one of the junker trucks that had been awaiting scrapping tearing away from the house toward the gate and road.

He was going to cope with it alone.

* * *

Sam was passing through Minnesota when the engine sputtered and died. He thought at first that it was out of gas, but then smoke started seeping under the hood and he realized it was a junker for a reason. That didn't defeat him though. He figured he would find a parking lot somewhere and boost another car. It wouldn't be the first time he'd done it. He'd gotten pretty good at hotwiring under John's tutelage.

He let the car drift over to the shoulder and then pulled on the handbrake. He'd bought nothing with him except the keys to the Impala and his cell phone in his pocket—which he had pulled the battery from to stop Ash tracking him. He needed nothing that the Impala couldn't provide for him now—it would contain everything needed to protect his brother and the rest of his family.

As he had listened to Castiel's explanation, he had grown steadily more nauseous at his words. The whole world or millions. Lucifer's paradise or the other angels'. There was nothing good for humanity there. It was doomed because of him.

He hadn't known— _God forgive him, he hadn't known_ —what would happen, but that didn't make him blameless. He had listened to the wrong people and ignored the one who had spoken sense to him. Dean had tried to make him see, the Trickster had known what would happen, but he had been so arrogant and filled to the brim with the power the blood gave him that he hadn't listened.

Every time he tried to help, he destroyed. He and his father had gone after Yellow-Eyes and it had cost John his life. He had killed Yellow-Eyes and Dean had dealt to save him. He had relied on himself to stop Dean's death and he had failed. And now he had tried to save the world and it had cost everything. He was a menace to the world. He was better off dead, he knew that in his heart, but he also knew he couldn't do it. Dean would ultimately find out, and it would destroy him.

Sam had one choice. To remove himself from the lives of everyone he loved and go it alone. He would work alone to find a way to stop Lucifer and then, when that was over, he would stop. He would go somewhere he could hurt no one else and live out his years alone. And then, when he went to Hell as he was bound, he would finally receive the punishment he deserved for his well-intended crimes.

He got out of the car and started walking along the road. He didn't think about hitching into town. He didn't want to be around other people, to witness lives he had doomed.

He didn't want more reminders, as if they were needed, of what he had done.

* * *

Sam was just assessing the cars on offer in an overnight parking garage when he heard the rustle of an angel's arrival. For a heart stopping moment, he thought it was Lucifer that had found him. Then Castiel spoke in his usual dry voice, "What are you doing, Sam?"

"Looking for a car to steal," Sam said.

"Why have you left your brother?"

Sam turned away from the Pontiac he was assessing and looked at the angel with incredulity. "Why do you think?" When Castiel looked blank he went on. "I'm trying to save his life."

Castiel shook his head, looking annoyed. "I think you are being a coward."

There was a time in which Sam would have bristled with indignation at the words. He would have argued and pointed out all the things he had done in his life that contradicted the statement, but he had no energy or inclination to do it now. Castiel was probably right. He didn't want to consider it enough to form an opinion. Coward it was. Who cared anyway?

"Okay," he said. "I'm a coward."

"You're running from him and his knowledge," Castiel went on.

"I am," Sam agreed without thought. "Absolutely."

"You can't bear to look into his eyes knowing as he does what you have done."

"Yep. Bang on. Couldn't be more right. Now, do me a favor and fuck off."

Castiel grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. "What do you think you are doing?"

"I thought we'd been over this. I am stealing a car. I am driving to Pennsylvania to pick up the Impala and I am going to get to work."

"Doing what?"

"Hunting the Devil. Finding his vessel and killing him." It was an idea Sam had toyed with on the walk. If there was one vessel for Lucifer and Sam could take it out, he would spend the rest of time floating around as impotent grace. Sam had killed so many demons' meat suits that another innocent wouldn't be a problem for him morally, and it wasn't like he wasn't already damned. "Don't suppose you know who the vessel is do, you?"

"You would really kill him?" Castiel asked.

Sam met his eyes. "You're really going to pretend you're surprised by that?"

"Perhaps not," Castiel said. "You cannot kill the vessel though. It's not possible."

Sam shrugged. "I'll come up with something else then."

Castiel eyed him thoughtfully. "Perhaps you will."

"Glad we're on the same page. Now, if you're not going away, which I still fully support, can you bounce me to the Impala?"

"I will on one condition," Castiel said.

"Let me guess, I have to go back to Dean."

Castiel smiled slightly. "Yes."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Sure. I'll do that."

"You will?" Castiel seemed pleased, as if oblivious to the sarcasm.

Wondering if it could possibly be that easy, Sam said, "Yeah. I'll go back."

"Thank you, Sam." There was the disconcerting sensation of being moved and then Sam was standing beside the Impala in the motel parking lot and all hell was breaking loose.

There were shouts and the high-pitched sound Sam connected with angels. There were three men standing opposite Sam and Castiel, dressed in dark suits. Sam would have tagged them as angels even without the long, silver blades in their hands.

In the split-second it took Sam to take it in, Castiel had shoved him aside, laying a hand on his chest as if claiming him.

"I will not let you touch him, Zachariah," Castiel spat, seeming to be addressing the balding angel in the middle.

"You think I am here for _him_?" the angel asked. "No, Castiel. I am here for you."

Castiel's blade slipped into his hand and he stepped forward. "Take me then. I am not afraid."

"We will not _take_ you anywhere, Castiel. We are here to kill you."

"You're forgetting one thing," Castiel said, sounding almost smug.

"And what might that be?"

"I knew you would come." Castiel tore open his shirt, revealing a sigil carved into the skin of his chest. Smiling victoriously, he raised his blade to his palm and cut across it, making blood well and flow.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a measured voice said behind them.

Sam spun on his heel and looked into the eyes of a dark-skinned angel in a black suit. In his hand was a sword, longer than the ones of the other angels.

"Raphael," Castiel sighed, defeated.

"Banish me and I will make your favorite mud-monkeys suffer for it."

Castiel's bloody hand fell back to his side and the archangel stepped forward, his sword raised and pointed at Castiel. Sam shouted an inarticulate warning, unable to understand why Castiel was still there and not running. But even as the words left his mouth, Raphael thrust his sword forward and the blade sank into Castiel's throat. There was a high, whining noise, and Castiel's body dropped to the ground.

"Now, Sam Winchester," Raphael said, "we need to talk."

Sam's instincts were screaming at him to run, to get away, but he knew he would never make it more than a few feet if they didn't want him to. Instead, he dropped to his knees and pressed a hand to Castiel's wound.

"He's dead," Raphael said. "There is nothing you can do."

Sam looked up and smiled, satisfied for a split second. "There's this!" He slammed his now bloody palm down on Castiel's chest, right in the center of the sigil. The force ripped through the air, and Sam saw the angels being ripped away as though by invisible cords, leaving Sam alone at the side of the road with the angel's body.

He breathed a sigh of relief and then looked down at Castiel's wide, dead eyes.

"I'm sorry."

* * *

 **So… Don't kill me, okay? I know I probably deserve it, but remember Kripke killed Castiel, too, and he's still kicking. Show mercy. ;-)**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy, Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2 for being the best beta/pre-reader/cheerleader team ever. Thank you for the reviews. I really appreciate the support.**

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

Sam had been able to get Castiel's body away from the scene without being observed due to the late hour, but there was nothing he could do about the marks of enormous wings on the ground. They were going to remain a mystery for civilians to mull over.

It felt worse than wrong to drive with the angel on the back seat. It reminded him of that damned journey in Montana after the hounds had come. But he had to do it. He owed it to the angel that had been prepared to die to save him and to the man he had been using as a vessel to give them both a proper funeral. To some people that would probably mean a church and prayers, and perhaps that was what an angel would want, but Dean said Castiel called himself a warrior, too, and they went down in flames.

There was a small forest in the area and Sam drove there and then set to work. Leaving the angel in the car, he gathered the wood he needed and began to pile it. It took a while to get enough together, and then he had the macabre task of wrapping the angel before laying him out on the pyre. He used the blanket from the trunk and wrapped him from head to toe.

He laid the body on the wood and poured on the salt and gasoline. The smell was strong in his nose; it reminded him of other funerals, other lost people, and he tried not to think about the fact he was adding another death to his debt with Castiel. He used a matchbook to light the pyre and stepped back when the flames roared up. They quickly licked over the blanket binding the body and the flesh beneath.

Sam watched the body burn and spoke three words into the flames, "Thank you, Castiel."

* * *

Sam hadn't meant to sleep but when he veered into the opposite lane for the second time, he conceded that he was a danger to himself and others. He pulled over and curled up against the window. He didn't feel that he had been sleeping long before he woke with a start. He looked out of the windscreen at the darkness and wondered what had woken him, then he heard the familiar gravelly voice and his heart relocated to his throat.

"Hello, Son."

Sam turned slowly, afraid, and met the eyes of his father. He was sitting in the shotgun seat, a place he'd only ever taken when so gravely injured that he could not drive himself. "Dad?" he breathed.

John nodded. "It's me."

"How?"

"It's the apocalypse, Sam; lots of things are different now. The angels can't guard heaven so close when they've got so much else going on. Some of us have been able to find a way to break free for a while."

"And Mom?" Sam asked hopefully.

"She's working on it. She wants to see you, too."

Sam felt his heart contract painfully. His mom. He might see his mom again. Would he be able to touch her? He reached out a hand, amazed to see it was steady, but when he tried to touch his father's arm, he moved through him like smoke.

"Not all the way here," John said. "I'm just a… visitor."

Sam nodded sadly. "I know why you're here."

"Of course you do. Smartest kids in the world, I raised. But it's not _all_ you think. Your old man isn't always the man he was before. Hell makes you rethink things, and I had plenty time to think while I was stuck down there."

Sam fought back a shudder at the casual mention of the place. He drew a breath, braced himself, and said, "Do you know everything that happened?"

"I think so. You killed that demon bitch, breaking the last seal or whatever it was, and now Lucifer is free." He stated it all calmly, as if it was an F on a paper—not that John had ever really cared about grades.

"I didn't know," Sam said dolefully. "I thought killing her would save not destroy."

"I know, and so does your mother. We know you only ever acted with the best of intentions, following the rules I laid down for you. This is as much my fault as it is yours. I laid Yellow-Eyes at your feet when you were eighteen and made you think killing him was worth anything. I watched you turn that gun on yourself and pull the trigger. Then Dean made the deal and the whole mess started. If I hadn't left you to kill yourself, Dean would never have been put in that position and he could never have broken the first seal."

Sam shook his head. "No, Dad. It's not your fault anymore than it's Dean's. I did this."

John smiled. "I know you got more than your share of the Winchester stubbornness, so I won't argue with you here, even though I know the truth. We need to talk about what happens next. You've got it into your head that you can take care of Lucifer, haven't you?"

"And I can't?" Sam asked, his heart sinking.

"I didn't say that. I just know that you can't do it alone."

"I have to!"

"No, you really don't. You need your brother. All you will do by staying away is hurt you both. You need help. _Think_ , Sam," he said, impassioned now. "You are a great hunter, the best, but you are better when you have the support of the people who care about you, not to mention the knowhow and skills they possess. Bobby Singer has immense knowledge; he saved my ass more times than I can count. Ash is a genius at tracking and researching, you know that. Ellen and Jo are just as important, and Dean… Dean needs you as much as you need him."

There was certain logic to what his father was saying, though Sam didn't want to admit it. He did need help, and the people in his life were the best. But he was a danger to them.

"And if I hurt them again?" he asked.

John looked apologetic. "I think you are a bigger risk to more than you are to few."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked quietly, though he thought he already knew what his father was saying.

He looked sad. "Look at what you do to the world when you are alone."

Sam nodded, he was right, of course he was, but it was impossible to admit. He was scared, so scared, that he would get someone he loved hurt or killed.

"Dean's hunting now, so is Jo," John said soberly, disapprovingly. "Do you really think they'll just stop because you're not there? They'll go after Lucifer, too, and what do you think will happen then?"

Sam sucked in a breath. "They'll get their damn selves killed."

"Exactly. Hell, it might happen anyway, but if you stick together, you're stacking the odds in their favor. Do this for me, son. Go to them. Take one last order from your father?"

They sat in silence for a moment while Sam thought over what his father had said. He was right, of course. He always was. But for Sam to admit that wasn't easy. He wasn't sure he could face looking into their faces every day, knowing that they had seen his greatest failure.

It wasn't truly about him though. He needed to do what was best by them, facing his shame and putting it aside to save.

"Okay," he said slowly. "I'll go back." Saying the words aloud felt like a weight was lifting from his shoulders.

John's face showed no surprise at Sam's decision. He knew him well enough to say exactly what Sam needed to hear to make him do the right thing. "Good," he said, satisfied.

"Dad," Sam said tentatively. "Will you stay?"

"I can't stay. I'll come back just as soon as I can though."

Sam nodded, that was the best he could have hoped for.

He turned the key in the ignition and the engine rumbled to life. He took a breath and pulled away from the curb.

"Dad," he said, glancing to the side. "Are you…" It was too late. John was gone and Sam was waking. He was sitting straight in his seat, the engine was running and his hands were on the steering wheel.

He had no doubt it had been real though. Only John could make him do what he had been determined not to do. He was going back.

* * *

For perhaps the twentieth time, Dean read the text message Sam had sent: **On my way back. Don't leave Bobby's.**

It had come through in the night, but it was approaching evening again, and though he knew Sam wouldn't make the trip in a few hours, he wished he was there already. He didn't think he would be able to relax even a little until he was.

Perhaps Castiel had persuaded him. Perhaps Sam had come to his senses alone. Whatever the reason, what mattered was that he was coming. He hadn't thought Sam _would_ come back; not after he had run away so many times before. He had always come back before, but one day there would be a time he wouldn't. There had to be. But he'd said he was coming, so Dean had to be patient.

It was another few hours before Dean heard the Impala pull up outside. He wanted to go out and meet Sam, but instinct kept him in his seat. He thought he needed to treat it like another day, as if Sam was returning from a trip into town, as if he hadn't fled once again.

The back door opened and Sam came in looking exhausted. He forced a grim smile for Dean and asked, "You okay?"

Dean raised an eyebrow. Sam had just had an actual breakdown. He'd run from them all, and now he came back looking like shit, and he was asking about Dean's wellbeing. Things were so backward between them it was insane.

"I'm fine," Dean said. "You?"

Sam shrugged. "Honestly, I don't even know anymore."

Bobby, who had been in the library poring over a book stomped through to the kitchen then and fixed his attention on Sam, "Didn't think we'd be seeing you again."

"I'm here now," Sam said. "I'm not abandoning you."

Bobby sighed. "You really think that's what I am saying? Sam, there is an honest-to-God apocalypse due out there and you took off alone. Do you not think we might have worried about you a little?"

Sam looked a little sad. "I didn't get hurt. Castiel did though."

"What happened?" Dean asked.

Sam drew a breath. "When we got to Pennsylvania, there were angels waiting for us. Some dick called Zachariah and a couple cronies."

"I know him," Dean said.

"Well, Castiel was facing off with them, protecting me, when this other dick arrived." He shook his head slowly. "Dean, he was killed. Raphael, the archangel, came and stabbed him."

Dean gasped. "No!"

"I'm sorry."

Of all the angels Dean had met, Castiel was the only one that Dean thought was halfway decent. Then he'd helped, busted Dean out of that room, and Dean _knew_ he was decent. He was an ally, a friend maybe, and now he was dead. The first casualty of the end.

"Is that why you came back?" Bobby asked. "Because Castiel died?"

"Does it matter?" Sam asked. "Isn't it enough that I'm here?"

"It matters to me," Dean said.

"I came back because this is the right place for me to be. If we're going to fight and be as safe as we can be, we need to be together. I came back because someone…" He shook his head. "Doesn't matter."

He was hiding something, Dean knew. It wasn't the first time and it wouldn't be the last. Dean just had to trust that whatever it was was personal and not dangerous.

"What are we going to do next?" Bobby asked. "As happy as I am to have you boys here, we can't stay bunkered down forever."

"You're right," Sam said. "I figure we should go to The Roadhouse. Ash might be able to help. I'm thinking there might be signs of Lucifer we can avoid for now and use to find him when we need to."

"Why would we _need_ to find the devil?" Bobby asked.

Sam spoke through his teeth. "Because when I know how, when I have a way, I am going to kill the bastard."

Dean swallowed hard. He had known on some level that this would be Sam's plan, but hearing it confirmed was hard. Lucifer was the worst thing they'd come up against. Yellow-Eyes had been much less than him, and it had cost Sam's life to kill him. Lilith was worse, and her death had taken Sam on the darkest path he had ever ventured down. Sam had done all that willingly, for the world. What would he do this time?

* * *

Sam knew even before he was out of the car that there was something wrong. The parking lot was empty of all but Ellen's and Jo's cars, which wasn't strange for the hour, but the lights were still burning in the bar, which was.

Dean's senses were honed now compared to what they had been when he'd joined the hunt again, and he seemed to sense it too. He stiffened with his hand on the door and reached for his gun.

There was no chance of subterfuge with the sound the engine had made, so they didn't even attempt it. They both climbed out of the car and raised their guns.

"Stay behind me," Sam said, and waited for Dean's nod before he walked toward the door. It wasn't that he thought Dean was incapable. He could just concentrate better when Dean was at least a little protected.

He pushed on the door and was unsurprised to find it was unlocked. Whoever was there other than Ellen, Jo and Ash, they were obviously there for Sam and Dean and not the rest of their family.

He eased the door open, holding his gun in front of him.

"You won't need that," a voice that Sam had heard once before said. "It's useless against us anyway."

Sam stepped fully into the room and saw Zachariah flanked by the two same angels that had been in Pennsylvania when Castiel had been killed. Sitting at the corner table Sam usually favored were Ellen, Jo and Ash, looking afraid but otherwise unharmed. He lowered his gun to his side and sighed. He knew the angel was right—guns were useless. If a knife to the heart wasn't going to bother them, a bullet wouldn't.

Dean came in after him and, despite Sam's instructions, moved to his side.

Zachariah's face broke into a wide smile. "Here he is. The man we've been waiting for."

"Me?" Dean asked.

"Yes, you."

"Why do you want him?" Sam asked angrily.

"Ah, and there _he_ is," Zachariah said. "The little brother who thinks he can save. The one who stands so tall and proud even after all he has done. Now, Sam Winchester, did you tell them how Castiel died trying to save your worthless hide?"

"Yes," Sam said. "Right after I took the body of the poor bastard your buddy killed and burned it."

Dean's eyes snapped to him, looking stunned.

What did he think Sam would have done with the body? Leave it behind for a John Doe cremation?

"You gave him a hunter's funeral?" Zachariah laughed. "That's hilarious."

"Screw you," Sam said bitterly. A hunter's funeral was a thing of honor not joke. It was how John Winchester had been taken care of. It was how Sam wanted to go. It was a mark of respect for someone who gave for others. Castiel had earned it.

Zachariah tutted. "There is a reason you aren't the one, you know, Sam, despite the bloodline. You could never belong to him."

"I belong to no one," Sam said.

Zachariah looked amused. "You'll see."

"What do you want, Zachariah?" Dean asked.

"I am not here for what you fear," Zachariah said. "I know you're afraid I am here to end your brother, but it is a baseless fear. In a way we owe him for what he did. And his work isn't over yet. Nor is yours. There is a task we need you to do."

Dean crossed his arms over his chest. "Yeah? See I heard that a lot over the last year, that there was 'work' for me to do. Turns out that was a crap distraction."

"It wasn't. There is still work for you to do. Well, technically not _you,_ but your body at least. There is one great service you can do for us and the world."

"He's doing nothing for you," Sam said stiffly. "I won't let him."

Dean laid a hand on his chest, as if to calm him. Sam hadn't felt this calm in a long time though. He was filled with certainty and resolution. They would get nothing from Dean. He would never let that happen. Dean wouldn't be stupid enough to make the same mistakes Sam had.

"How will you stop him?" Zachariah asked.

"What do you want from me?" Dean asked, saving Sam from answering.

"Dean," Sam growled.

"He's right to ask," Zachariah said. "Sensible man. You can't go into this blind, after all. Complete disclosure this time, Dean. What we need is for you to give consent."

Dean looked confused for all of a second before his eyes widened. "Consent! You want to stuff an angel down my throat?"

"Not just any angel," Zachariah said with relish. "Our great leader. Our general. The archangel Michael."

Sam forced himself not to react, to not give the dick the satisfaction. Dean had no such resolve. "And why the hell would I do that?"

"Because it is written. It is your destiny. You will give yourself over and save the world from The Serpent. You will be Michael's weapon for the battle."

"And you know I really doubt it," Sam said easily. "Dean's too smart to fall into your trap."

"Hmmm, maybe a little motivation might help," Zachariah said with a wide smile. "How about this?" He snapped his fingers and Sam felt an agonizing pain in his lower legs and he dropped to the floor with a howl. Looking down, he saw his legs were at unnatural angles. The bastard had broken them.

"Sam!" Dean shouted.

Sam swallowed down a cry and looked up at his brother. "It's fine. I'm fine. Don't give them what they want."

"What do you say, Dean?" Zachariah asked,

"No," Dean said firmly.

"How about now?" he asked, pointing a finger at Sam again. "Let's see how he does without his lungs."

There was a sudden heavy weight on Sam's chest and he couldn't draw a breath. It wasn't as if his mouth was blocked, it was that there was nowhere for the air to go. He heard people shouting his name, and he slumped back on the floor, his head hitting the hard wood, gulping air into his stomach.

Someone turned his head, and he looked into Ellen's frantic face. "Hang on, honey," she said, but Sam felt he was hearing it from underwater. Sam fixed his eyes on Dean who was on his feet, looking down at Sam, stunned, and he shook his head. It didn't matter if he died as long as Dean didn't say yes.

"He's dying, Dean," Zachariah said smugly. "Will you say yes now?"

"Never," Dean said, though it sounded like the word cost him something.

Sam kept his blurring gaze on Dean and willed him to stay strong, to keep saying no. Nothing else mattered. He felt himself slipping though. The oxygen deprivation was getting to him and he was going to lose consciousness soon.

Then there was a piercing sound like light made voluble and Sam heard someone cry out, "No!" The voice would have scared him but it was Zachariah's, and that meant something was going wrong for him.

Sam knew he was dying now; he had to be, because he was hearing a voice whose owner he knew to be dead. "Hello, Dean."

Just as Sam's mind fogged and faded, he heard Dean's stunned question. "Castiel?"

* * *

Sam was slumped over the table with a glass of whiskey in front of him. Jo was beside him and her head was resting on his shoulder. Dean was sitting on his other side, and though he cast Sam occasional worried glances, he was okay.

"So, Castiel shivved one of the lackeys through the throat, ordered him to put you right, and Zach booked it out of there pretty soon after," Dean said.

Sam smiled grimly. "Good work, Cas."

"I was happy to help," Castiel said, though he sounded pleased.

"And God brought you back?" Ellen asked.

"Yes. He resurrected me and rebuilt my body from the ashes."

"Yeah," Sam said awkwardly. "I'm sorry about that. If I'd known it was an option, I would never have… you know."

Castiel smiled at him. "I was… honored… that you would do that for me."

Sam looked away, unsure of what to say or how to react to Castiel's obvious sincerity.

He still felt groggy from Zachariah's attack and his lack of sleep. What he wanted more than anything was to go to the peace of his and Dean's room and rest. He rested his head against Jo's and closed his eyes.

"Okay," Ellen said, making his eyes snap open again. "You boys need sleep. You've had a hell of a couple days, and you need to rest before the next crap-storm comes along."

"Cheery, Ellen," Dean said.

"Am I wrong?" she countered. "You said Lucifer was free. That means an actual apocalypse. Crap-storms are what we should be preparing for. Besides, Sam looks ready to drop."

Unable to argue, Sam eased Jo up and stood. He waved a vague goodbye to the others and staggered out of the bar and into the bedroom. He fell fully clothed onto the bed and punched the pillow into a more comfortable shape. He heard Dean come in, and maybe he said something, but Sam was already almost asleep. He groaned something indecipherable in return and was soon asleep.

She was there so fast she could have been waiting for him. "Mom?" Sam asked hopefully.

"Sam," she said with a soft smile.

Sam sat up quickly, making his head swim.

"You're exhausted," she said in a sigh. "My poor boy."

Sam blinked away a tear. It was too much on top of everything else to see her, so beautiful. He couldn't hold onto the tight grip he usually had on his emotions.

"You're hurting," she said.

"You know what I did. I'm supposed to hurt for that."

"Have you really thought about it, Sam?" she said. "What you did, I mean? Have you looked at it from another angle?"

Sam frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Perhaps it wasn't a crime after all. You know why Lucifer was cast out, don't you?"

"Because he wouldn't bow to humanity."

"Exactly," she said. "How is that a crime?"

Sam's heart sank. She would never say this. Sam knew that in his heart. He had heard how gentle and sweet his mother was, and he'd seen it for himself when Uriel blasted him back to the past, but she wouldn't sympathize with the devil. It wasn't her. It couldn't be.

"You're not her," he said, his disappointment obvious in his tone.

She shook her head sadly. "No. I'm not."

Her form rippled as if in a heat haze and then Sam was looking into the eyes of a man he had never seen before.

"Hello, Sam," he said.

"Who are you?" Sam asked.

"I think you already know. Think, Sam, who would come to you now, after what you did?"

"Lucifer!" he spat.

"Yes."

"What do you want?"

"I want to help you. I want to give you everything. I owe you so much for what you did for me. You freed me. I want to free you."

"I'm already free," Sam said.

"You're really not. You are burdened by the grief of what you have done. I can take that away. I can bring them back to you. Your mother, your father, all you have to do is say yes."

Sam's eyes widened and he felt sick.

"You understand," Lucifer said, satisfied. "I knew you would. You are clever. Yes, Sam. You are the chosen vessel." He plucked at the shirt he was wearing. "Nick here is an improvisation. Plan B as it were. You're the one truly meant for me."

"I will never say yes," Sam said defiantly.

Lucifer shook his head. "You will. You will have no choice."

"Never," Sam said again.

Lucifer smiled slightly. "I am sorry, Sam, I truly am, but it's going to happen. You can fight it all you like, but it is destiny."

"Why me?"

"Because it had to be you, Sam. It always had to be you. You and I are one."

Sam closed his eyes, misery rising within him. When he opened them, Lucifer was gone.

* * *

Sam crossed the room on silent feet and laid the sheet of paper on his pillow. Dean would find it soon enough, but by then it would be too late to do anything about it.

He had known what he had to do the minute the words left Lucifer's mouth. "You will have no choice."

Lucifer was right. He would find a way to force Sam, and despite his best intentions, he would fail to resist. He didn't want to do this, he didn't want to go, but it was him or the world.

He looked down at Dean's sleeping form and whispered a goodbye. It _was_ a goodbye this time. There was no bargaining it away—no demon would deal now—and no chance of recovery. He would make sure of it.

He turned away and made for the kitchen. The keys were in the lock and he opened the back door, pausing to check no one woke when it creaked. No one did, and he slipped through it and left it open behind him.

He could have gone from The Roadhouse to do it, but that would just make things more complicated when they did find him. He opened the trunk and searched through the weapons for the silencer that fitted his gun. It was under a sack of salt. He took it out and attached it to the gun with confident movements.

Ready, he walked back to the scrubby yard that made up the rear of The Roadhouse's land. He figured the rain that was falling would take care of the mess he would leave behind. Well, some of the mess.

He took a breath, pressed the hilt of the gun against his chest once again, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger.

There was no pain, only peace.

* * *

 **So… Again with the pleas for mercy. I brought Cas back, that's good right? I mean sure I killed Sam, but that's okay. Right? Right!**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you hugs to Jenjoremy, SandraEngstrom2 and Gredelina1 for beta'ing, outlining help and pre-reading. Thank you all for reading, reviewing and supporting the story. It's much appreciated.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Three**_

Something woke Dean. He didn't know what it was as everything was quiet, but something had happened.

He rolled over slowly, not wanting the creaking of his bedsprings to wake Sam, but when he looked across the space between them, he saw Sam's bed was empty. Empty but neatly made with a sheet of paper on the pillow.

Dean cursed as he threw back the bedclothes, grabbed up the paper, and read a few lines of the message.

 _Dean, I'm sorry._

 _I wish things were different, but they aren't. I can't stay knowing what I could do. It's better for everyone if I'm gone, so you have to let me go this time…_

He should have known this would happen. Sure, Sam had come back, but he'd had time to think on it since and he'd obviously decided sticking around was the wrong decision. Perhaps he was now hunting Michael as well as Lucifer. That seemed like the sort of thing he would do. Anything to protect Dean.

Let him go? Not a chance. Sam was making a mistake leaving and Dean was going to track his ass down and tell him. Dammit, Dean needed Sam. He'd just found out he was an archangel's vessel for an epic, world destroying battle. That was something a guy could use his brother's support to get through.

 _I know what will happen if I stay. He told me. I can't risk it. I have to do what I can. Take care of each other._

 _Sam_

 _P.S. Tell Ellen, I always knew just how much._

Dean's hand balled into a fist. It was so easy for Sam because he wasn't the one left behind. He was John Winchester's son in every sense of the word. They'd both abandoned Dean when he needed them. Dean wasn't letting him do this. They had Castiel now. He could find Sam wherever he was and Dean was going to use him to drag Sam back so he could talk some sense into him. He would make him see that this wasn't what you did to family. Whatever he—whoever _he_ was—had told Sam, they'd fix it together. They were _always_ better together than apart.

He wandered into the kitchen, noting as he did the chill in the air and the sound of the rain, louder than it should be. The back door was open. He frowned. Sam was usually a little more security savvy than to leave a door open like that. Unthinkingly, he walked to the door and pushed it open wider.

The bottom dropped out of his world.

Sam was lying on his back on the rain and mud soaked ground, perfectly still. One arm was flung out at his side, the hand facing up and water collecting in his palm, and in the other hand was the gun. It was at his side, the silver looking out of place among the colors of the night: the deep green grass, the navy sky, the dim yellow light pouring out of the door, and the blood, oh god the blood. It looked almost black, spread as a stain on Sam's chest and lightening to deep pink where the rain was diluting it at his sides.

"Sam!" he shouted, running out into the rain and skidding down on the mud. He fell to his knees, his hand coming to automatically steady himself on Sam's unmoving chest. "Sam! Sammy, no!"

He patted Sam's cheeks, his forehead, he grabbed his chin and turned his head from side to side, but Sam didn't react at all. And though Dean knew he wouldn't—couldn't ever again—answer him, he pleaded for him to talk, to say something.

Someone screamed behind him, and yet he didn't turn. Feet appeared in his line of view and voices shouted, and still he didn't look at them. He was staring at his brother's face, tears streaming down his own, and he was trying as hard as he could to wake up, because this had to be a nightmare. He couldn't be in this position again. Sam couldn't have done _this_ again. Not to Dean. Not to his brother. This was all a nightmare and he was going to wake up and Sam would be there and he would be okay.

"Sam," he moaned, and then there was a shout of surprise and someone was unceremoniously dragging Dean to his feet.

He looked into Zachariah's smug face and he was talking, but Dean heard him as though he was coming through static. "…perfect…going…see something…Winchester…" And Dean looked down over his shoulder at Sam and that was the last thing he saw before everything went black.

* * *

When he woke, he was in motion before his eyes were even all the way open, scrabbling to his feet and looking around. He was still outside The Roadhouse, but things were enormously different to the place he had been. It was day. It wasn't raining. The ground was dry and the grass dead and yellow. There was no Sam, no Zachariah, and no voices. There was no sound but cicadas singing and the pounding of Dean's own pulse in his ears.

"Sam?" Dean said hopefully, but there was no response. "Ellen? Jo? Ash?"

There was no answering voice, but Dean thought he heard a creaking inside the building, a creaking and another strange sound, a human approximation of a growl.

He crept across the grass and through the open door into the kitchen. The place he had left was neat and clean, with its yellow door cabinets and pine table and chairs. There were mugs on the counter beside the coffee maker.

Now the table was on its side against the opposite wall, like someone had used it as a fort. The chairs were tipped over on the floor and the counters were bare of all but gritty, broken glass and china. The chalkboard that they'd all used to leave notes for each other was still there, and it bore one faded message, _'Sorry'._

"What the hell happened?" he asked the empty room.

He heard footsteps racing towards him and he lurched away from the door automatically. Ash burst into the room, but it wasn't Ash as Dean had ever seen him before. His hair was tangled, matted in places, his skin was smeared with grime, and his eyes… they were red, as if he had burst blood vessels. They were wide and unknowing as he launched himself at Dean, knocking him to the floor. He snarled like a rabid animal and his teeth snapped close to Dean's face.

Dean reacted automatically. He bought up a knee and smashed it into Ash's groin. Ash rolled off of him, and Dean jumped to his feet, backing away toward the opposite wall. Ash only stayed down a few seconds though. He was quickly scrambling to his feet and coming at Dean.

Dean knew only that something awful had happened to his friend and that if he didn't defend himself he was going to be killed. He picked up a chair from the floor, hefted it through the air and crashed it down over Ash's head. Ash dropped like a stone, bleeding from a wound on his temple.

Dean stood for a moment, panting, with the chair still in his arms, and then he lowered it to the floor again and scrubbed a hand over his face. He hadn't killed Ash, he could still see him breathing, but it didn't make what had happened any easier to take. What on earth had happened? Where were Ellen and Jo? Were they rabid, too? And where was Sam? He had to be okay, because he couldn't be dead. That had been a nightmare. It was all one crazy acid trip dream and he was going to wake up soon.

Nightmare or not, Dean had to get out of there before Ash woke up. He needed to wake up. He needed a jolt. He needed pain.

He crept across the room and picked up a shard of china that had once been one of Ellen's mugs. He pressed it against the tip of his finger and jabbed it through the skin. It hurt. It bled.

"Not enough," he breathed. He needed something real to make him wake up, something stronger that a prick on the finger.

Ash groaned, and Dean realized he had no time to screw around experimenting. He needed to leave. Now.

He bolted out of the back door and round the building to the parking lot. There were three cars parked there, two of them were parked on flats, but the third, a Toyota, had full tires and an unlocked door. It was as if someone had left it for him—another tick in the dream column.

He got in and closed and locked the door behind him. He bent in his seat and prized the panel away from beneath the steering column. With a few once practiced movements, he had the engine running and he was pulling out of the parking lot.

He got a few miles out of town before he realized he didn't know what he was doing or where he was going or even why. On the seat beside him was the shard of china he'd taken from the kitchen. He pulled over onto the hard shoulder and picked it up. The finger prick hadn't been enough, but perhaps something a little more lasting would do the job.

He brought the shard to his wrist and took a breath.

"What is it with you Winchesters and suicide?" Zachariah asked.

Dean twisted in his seat and looked at the angel sitting beside him.

"You!" he snarled.

"Me," Zachariah said.

"This crap is down to you?"

"That depends. Do you mean your wannabe-martyr brother's suicide? No. That was all down to him. Bouncing you ahead five years so you can see what will become of the world if you say no to Michael? Yes, that's down to me."

"What do you mean bouncing me ahead?"

"Dean, Dean, Dean, how did you make it through college? I thought you were smart. Let me break it down into little words for you. Sam is dead. You are not. This is 2014. You are here. The world is a mess. It's your fault."

One part of the explanation resounded in Dean's thoughts. Sam was dead. It wasn't possible. He didn't believe it. So why was he crying? A single tear traced its way down his cheek.

"So…" Zachariah said expansively. "You're up to date. I can go."

"Wait!" Dean said quickly. "What happened to Ash?"

"Before you gave him a concussion, you mean?" He laughed. "That's a story for another time. Now, Dean, off you go. Plenty to do and people to see. Make sure you drink it in, pay attention to the little details, learn from the experience."

"No," Dean started, "Take me…" It was too late; Zachariah was gone.

* * *

Dean knew he needed to get somewhere safe, though he judged from the view out of his window as he drove, there was no safe anymore. Cars were abandoned in roads, many of them burned out. Buildings had busted windows and graffitied walls. Doors hung off hinges, and the people… the people were like dogs. Some just stood and watched him drive past, glaring balefully, while others chased the car, shouting and snarling, and making Dean want to be sick.

What the hell had happened to the world?

Without thought, he directed his path to the safest place he could think of other than at Sam's side—Bobby's house. He tried not to allow himself to hope, but his mind presented him with an image of the rest of them bunkered down in Bobby's panic room, safe and waiting for him. Sam would be there, because he had to be. Zachariah had to have been lying. Sam was okay, because Dean needed him to be.

Bobby's place looked promising from the outside. There was none of the damage he had seen in the other places along the way. It looked as it always did, though there was no sign of life from the outside. He hadn't expected there to be really, though, not if they were in the panic room.

He pulled the car to a stop close to the house and got out, listening hard for any sounds or voices that would portend friends or foes. It would be Winchester luck to get this far only to be taken out by one of the rabid.

He scaled the steps to the house and tested the door; it was unlocked. That was the first clue he wasn't going to find his family inside. Bobby would be more obsessed with security than ever seeing as the world had gone down the toilet. He eased it open and walked inside. The room smelled of mould and must. Furniture was tipped over and in front of the fireplace the desk was in a state of chaos. There were books and papers, but they'd been shoved back and coated with blood— _oh god, the sheer amount of blood—_ that had dried to black.

Dean sucked in a shaky breath. Something terrible had happened there.

He turned away from the blood and walked slowly to the basement door. The stairs and rail were coated with dust that Dean disturbed into little clouds as he descended. When he got to the bottom, he took a breath before looked around at the panic room door. It was ajar. "Hello," he said tentatively. "It's me, Dean."

There was no voice in return, and Dean's heart sank impossibly lower. He moved to the door and eased it open. The panic room was empty.

Disappointment rushing through him, Dean spun on his heel and ran up the stairs through the hall and into the lounge. His eyes were drawn once again to the blood soaked desk. That was when he noticed the photographs propped up in front of the clock on the mantelpiece. He couldn't see them clearly, but he thought he recognized a familiar outline in one. He walked forward and picked it from the shelf. It was a picture of him and Sam he had never seen before. They were sitting at the corner table in the Roadhouse, beers in hands. Dean's head was thrown back, laughing, and Sam had a wide smile on his face. He didn't know when it had been taken, but the angle showed him it was taken from the bar, which meant Ellen or Jo had sneaked it without them knowing. A lump formed in his throat.

He glanced at the other photo and then snatched it up as he recognized other people he knew. Ellen, Jo and Bobby were standing together, dressed in fatigues and carrying rifles. At the side of the shot was a wooden sign with _Camp Chitaqua_ carved into it.

Dean had heard of the place, as he'd arranged for a couple of kids to get subsidized time there when he was working. It was on the other side of the state. He glanced back at the bloodied desk and nodded to himself. It wasn't necessarily all bad. Bobby was obviously alive in that picture. Maybe the blood wasn't his. It could be a rabid, killed before Bobby moved on to the camp.

He had to check. It was the only clue he had to where his family was.

* * *

He didn't know what made him look when he got outside, but something drew him to the back of the house. After, he wished he hadn't looked. There was a rectangular pile of ash, the kind left after a large fire, a pyre. A hunter's funeral.

"Oh, Bobby…"

He couldn't bear to be there another minute. He had to get away from those ashes, that house, and the memories associated with it. He thought he would lose his mind if he stayed. He spun around and made for the car again, but before he reached it he heard a snarling sound. His breath faltered. A rabid. His eyes swept the ground for some kind of weapon. All he could see were rocks half buried in the ground. He kicked at one to loosen it and then bent to pull it from the earth. It wasn't big, but he thought he could knock someone out if he put enough force behind it.

He crept forward as quietly as he could and then peered around the corner of the house. It was a man, dressed in dirty and ragged clothes with hair that trailed down his back and a scraggly beard. Dean saw him in half profile as he stared at the door to the house. He was too close to the car for Dean to be able to get there without being seen. He couldn't move an inch without drawing the man's attention. There was no chance of subterfuge, so Dean went with surprise. He ran forward, the rock clenched in his raised fist.

The man turned and his bloody red eyes widened with shock and then narrowed with ferocity. He rushed forward to meet Dean, pulling a short bladed knife from his pocket. Dean was fast though; he got to the man and smashed the rock down on his temple before he could find his balance to attack in turn. The rock tore skin and blood rushed down the man's face. He brought up a hand to the wound and then shook his head as if annoyed. Dean made to run, to get back to the car, but the man recovered too quickly. He caught Dean and dragged him back with one arm tight around Dean's chest, constricting his air; he brought the knife to Dean's neck and pressed the tip against his throat. The man's warm breath tickled the back of Dean's neck. In the split second it took Dean to process what was happening, a name rushed into his mind: Sam!

It gave him anger and it gave him strength to fight back. He rocked his head forward and then slammed it back against the man's face. He heard a crunch and the arm around his chest loosened enough that he could get free. He scrambled forward and aimed a kick at the man's knee. He crumpled and the knife fell from his hand. Dean picked it up and kicked the man again so he was on his back. The red eyes looked up at him; they were devoid of all emotion but rage. There was no fear there. He wasn't human anymore.

Dean brought the knife slashing down across the man's throat in a fast, merciful movement and then stepped back from the flow of blood.

The man gurgled and gasped for a moment before falling silent, but Dean didn't stop and watch. He was already in the car, starting the engine. Reversing carefully around the body on the ground, he directed the car to the road. He had to get away from that place.

* * *

He reached the town Camp Chitaqua was located near around dusk. He'd noticed as he drove that the closer he got to his destination, the less damage there seemed to be to the buildings, and he hadn't seen a single rabid since he got within ten miles of the place. It was as if something kept them away.

He remembered that there was a long dirt track into the forest before you got to the camp itself, but there had been no manmade barriers there before. The trees and bushes had formed the fence. That was changed. There was a confused layer of wood and chain link fencing as far as he could see. There was also a heavy metal gate barring his entry with a thick padlock and chain holding it closed.

He pulled the car to a stop and got out, looking carefully up and down the road to make sure he was alone, and then approached the fence. Though it was obviously made in a hurry, it looked too sturdy for him to break, if he even wanted to. It occurred to him that the fence was there for a good reason in this broken world. He turned his attention to the gate. That was his way in. He walked back a way and then ran at it, legs pumping. Judging the moment right, he pushed up from the ground as hard as he could and grabbed the top of the gate. He caught it and, gripping it as tight as he could, he pulled himself up and over. His feet slammed the ground and the impact rocked up his legs. He took a moment to let his body adjust and then he set off along the track.

He was only a dozen paces along when he heard movement behind him. He turned on his heel, braced to fight again, but before he could take in what he was seeing there was a plank of wood flying at his head, slamming onto his temple. He fell back onto the ground, arms splayed at his sides.

He blinked drowsily, trying to make the face above him come into focus, and breathed the name just before he lost consciousness. "Ellen?"

* * *

Dean blinked himself awake slowly, his mind muddled and confused but urgent. He was at Sonny's and there were chores to do. He was in college and he had to get to class. He was in his house and he was late for work. He was at The Roadhouse and Sam was slapping him awake because they were…

"Sam!" He gasped the name as he jerked upright, at least as upright as he could get with his right hand chained to a bedpost. He looked around, confused and a little afraid, and saw he was in a room with log walls, a lantern on the shelf giving the room a dim glow and a wooden table and chairs. He was half sitting on a metal frame bed with a grey wool blanket on it. Carefully, he swung his legs around and eased himself fully upright with his hand still tethered to the bed frame.

His concussed mind tried to make sense of what had happened. He had woken up at The Roadhouse and Ash had been there. He'd got to Bobby's and he'd been attacked. He'd killed the rabid man. He'd driven across the state to… the camp. He'd gotten to the camp, and then when he'd got over the gate, he'd been attacked by… Ellen. It had been Ellen. Was she rabid, too? Was everyone? Was this world filled with all the people he loved diseased and dangerous?

The door creaked open and his eyes snapped to it, wondering what person or nightmare was coming through it. It was a person, not a nightmare. Her brown eyes were clear of the blood of the rabid.

"Ellen," he sighed. "Thank God."

She glanced back over her shoulder before entering fully into the room.

"What's going on?" Dean asked her.

She raised an eyebrow. "I'd like to ask you the same question. What kind of dumbass monster tries sneaking into this place? You suicidal?"

"Monster? Ellen, it's me."

She shook her head. "Nice try."

There were footsteps on creaking wood just outside the door and Jo walked in. Like her mother, she was dressed in ragged fatigues and her hair was pulled back tight from her face. She looked older than the last time Dean had seen her. In fact, they both did. There were lines around Ellen's eyes and mouth that hadn't been there before, and her hair had threads of gray. It was more than that though. They looked _different_. There was hardness in their eyes that hadn't been there before. Jo's zeal for life was missing; she just looked tired. And Ellen looked more than tired. She looked like she was a long time dead but forced to live.

Dean didn't think he had ever seen more desolate faces. That was before the third person walked into the room, though and blew his world apart.

It was him. Darker eyed, older for sure, and horribly different, but him. The mask he had so often cursed on Sam's face was in place over that Dean's. He gave nothing away, no trace of emotion. "What do we have here?" he asked.

Dean just gaped at him. He couldn't think of a thing to say.

The other Dean walked toward him, and he flinched back automatically, both from the sight and the attack he was sure would follow. But there was no attack. The other Dean merely reached up to a shelf above the bed and pulled down a leather bag he recognized as the kit Sam had given him what seemed like a lifetime ago when he was just rejoining the life. He pulled a short bladed silver knife from it and a flask of holy water.

"I'm not a demon," Dean said. "Or not a shapeshifter or whatever else you're thinking. I'm me. I'm Dean."

"No. _I_ ' _m_ Dean. I don't even know what you are. Yet." The last word was said with malice.

"I'm not a monster! Just listen to me and I'll explain." He saw no give in their eyes. They didn't want to hear it. He sighed and held out a hand. "I'll prove it. Give me the knife."

Ellen snorted. "Sure. We'll arm you. That makes complete sense."

Her voice was harsh. Dean had never heard her sound like this. He had seen her run through almost every gauntlet of emotion before, but she had never been shut down like she was now. It was eerie and wrong, and in that moment he wished more than anything that she would snap out of it.

The other Dean caught his outstretched hand and gripped it tightly, running the tip of the blade over his forearm. It stung and blood pooled, but there was obviously no other reaction. Rather than pleasing that Dean, it seemed to annoy him, as he grimaced and dropped his hand as if it had suddenly burned hot. He unscrewed the cap of the flask of holy water and splashed it over Dean's face. The water dripped down onto his shirt front and he blinked it out of his eyes.

"See? Not a demon. Not a shapeshifter."

"Ghoul," Ellen said.

"Ellen, I can't shoot myself in the head to prove the point," he said, then flinched as he remembered he'd said the exact same words to Sam a lifetime ago. "How would that even work anyway?" he asked. "I'm, he's, here, alive!"

"Maybe you're both ghouls," Jo said obstinately.

The other Dean rounded on her and she winced.

"Test me with Obsidian if you want," Dean said. "But I'm not a monster. If you'll just listen, I'll tell you what's happened!"

"Go on then," Ellen said. "What's happened?"

"Zachariah," he said quickly, knowing now he had the attention of them all. "He bounced me ahead to 2014. It is 2014, right?" He waited for Ellen's nod before he went on. "I'm supposed to see what becomes of the world if I keep saying no."

Dean's eyes widened. "Zachariah did this? Where is he?"

"I don't know. He dropped in on my way over and then booked it again."

"Pray," he demanded. "Call him here. Now."

"What? Why?"

"Do it!" he snarled.

Dean didn't know why he obeyed. Maybe it was because the mask slipped and he saw the pain in his future self for the first time. How could he feel so much and not be crying out from the agony of it? Even seeing it there was enough to make Dean want to moan with fear for his future.

"Zachariah, come back. I need to speak to you." He paused, waiting, and then said, "Please."

"He won't come, Dean," Ellen said, addressing the other. "You know that as well as any of us."

"Why would you even want him to?" Dean asked.

"Why? Why do you think? I want to say yes."

"But… you can't!"

"Can't I?" The mask was in place again but the eyes burned with fury. "When are you from? When _exactly_ did Zach bounce you from?"

"He took me from… Sam had just… It wasn't real. It was a dream. It was all a dream."

"Sam just shot himself, didn't he?" Jo asked, voice empty.

Dean nodded. "I _just_ found him."

Ellen shook her head. "It wasn't a dream. Sam killed himself. That happened."

"No! It can't have!"

Dean couldn't, wouldn't, believe it. He couldn't have let it happen, not again. Sam had been hurt again and again, and Dean swore every time that he wouldn't let it happen again. He hadn't failed that completely. Sam couldn't have died.

"It's a dream," he muttered. "All of it. It has to be a dream."

The other Dean lurched forward and slammed a fist into his face. The pain burst in his head like a bolt of lightning and warm blood poured from his nose.

"Does that feel like a dream?" he asked. "Does that blood feel real?"

"No," Dean lied. He had to lie because to admit the truth was to admit defeat.

"You can't lie to me, to yourself. You know you're awake. You know what it means."

"Sam's dead?" he asked quietly

"Sam's gone," Ellen said, and there was a hint of pain in her voice. "He's been gone a long time."

Dean bowed his head and started to cry. Pain pulsed though him, not the physical, that was like an echo of sensation. It was his heart that hurt. He had failed. Sam was gone.

"Oh, Sammy."

* * *

 **So… Poor Ash. Poor Bobby. Poor Dean. Poor Ellen, Jo and Future!Dean. Yet again I feel I need to plead for mercy — I'm wondering if that's going to be a constant thing in this story.**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy for beta'ing, SandraEngstrom2 and Gredelina1 for pre-reading and to you all for sticking with me and the story. I really appreciate the support**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Four**_

They left him. He didn't know for how long, he wasn't even aware of them going, but when the tears ceased, he found he was alone in the room. His body was heavy and he wanted to sleep more than anything, to dream of the things he had lost maybe. But there was no chance of resting. His mind was awake and active, refusing to allow him even that comfort.

They hadn't taken off the handcuff that tethered him to the bed, but he thought maybe that was better. That way he couldn't walk out of the camp into the ruined world again, straight into the path of the nearest rabid to be put out his misery. There was no reason not to. Sam was gone. The people he loved were already doomed. There was no shame in it anymore. Sam had done the same thing. But he couldn't, because they had left him bound, so he just had to wait for what came next. Perhaps Zachariah would come soon and cast him back to the nightmare of his present rather than the one of the future.

Zachariah didn't come though. He was alone for a long time before he heard footsteps again and the most unexpected person walked into the room. He was unexpected not only for his actual presence, but for his physical appearance, too. He was dressed in a collarless shirt with a bead necklace around his neck and he looked stoned.

"Castiel?"

The angel smiled a little sadly. "Hello, Dean."

"What the hell happened to you? I mean… this," he gestured Castiel up and down.

"Humanity happened. I gained it. Others lost it."

"I noticed," Dean said dourly. "The other me is a mess."

"I don't mean him," Castiel said.

"Who do you mean?"

Castiel shook his head. "They sent me into answer some of your questions. As you can imagine, it's hard for them to be around you."

"Because I'm him?"

"No, because it's still so raw for you. They left it behind a long time ago."

"Okay," Dean said slowly. "Tell me what happened."

Castiel moved to the bed and sat down beside Dean. His eyes became distant and he said, "It started when Lucifer gained his vessel."

"He got someone to consent? How? I thought he had to be honest. What kind of man would say yes to that?"

"We don't know," Castiel said sadly. "None of us were there when it happened." He shook his head. "I can only imagine he was desperate and could see no other way. It happened, and the world started to spin out of control from there. Within months Croatoan was spreading and people were killing and infecting others."

"Croatoan? That's what's making people go rabid?"

"It's a demonic virus. Sam encountered this infection a long time ago, around the time you were reunited. It makes humans… Well, I'm assuming you saw it. They attack 'clean' humans and sometimes kill, sometimes infect. Dean created this safe place for the clean. There are around a hundred of us living here now. There used to be more, but we have to leave the compound sometimes for supplies and there are casualties."

"Bobby?" Dean asked, thinking of the blood and ashes.

"Bobby Singer refused to leave his home. He would come here to train and instruct, but he always returned home after. One day he didn't show up as scheduled, so we went to his house to check on him. Dean found him. It wasn't the Croats. It was a gunshot. We believe Lucifer or one of his lieutenants did the job. Dean was very upset."

Of course he was. Bobby was family, like a father to Dean. He couldn't imagine how it would feel to lose him.

"Why would Lucifer do it?" Dean asked.

"It was when the other angels were still here. I believe he wanted to hurt Dean, to remind him of the power he held over him. Anyone that he loved could be taken away on a whim. He was trying to persuade Dean to give in."

"What do you mean _when_ the angels were here?"

"They left," Castiel said, a hint of longing in his tone. "I think they gave up. They went home to Heaven and ceased to care about anything here."

"You're still here though."

"I had no choice. I wasn't one of them anymore. Dean tried to call them back. When it became clear that there was no healing the world, he thought it would be better to put half out of its misery swiftly as opposed to the painful, drawn out affair it is now. They didn't answer though. They don't care anymore. I don't believe they even heard his prayers. They abandoned us all."

Dean raked his free hand over his face. "This is worse than Hell. This is the world. What do I do?"

"You're only here temporarily," Castiel said. "You will go back to your time soon and there you will be able to make a choice."

"You think I should say yes?" Dean asked, a bite of anger in his tone.

"I think you should make the decision yourself. Our Dean would tell you to do it. He would say yes now in a heartbeat, but I…"

"You?"

Castiel let out a quiet sigh. "I see the good that still exists here. Yes, many are suffering, but others still live. There is happiness to be found if you look for it. You have to decide if the happiness of some outweighs the suffering of others."

"That's too much for one man to decide. I need Sam to help me make that choice, and he's gone now."

Castiel nodded. "Sam made his own choice. You knew him, though. What do you think he would want?"

"I don't know," Dean moaned.

"Then let me take you to someone else that knows him just as well."

He frowned. "You said Dean would say yes."

"I did, but he's not who I mean." He stood and reached onto the shelf above the bed. He took down a small silver key and unlocked Dean's cuff.

"He left it there?" Dean asked.

"I believe he wanted you to make the choice to be free yourself, to make the choice that is no longer his to make."

"He's not cuffed, Cas."

"Not with metal, no, but he is just as trapped as you."

* * *

The sun was just lighting the sky when Dean and Castiel stepped out of the cabin. Dean had mourned the whole night away.

People were starting to stir in their cabins; doors were open and he could hear voices, but they passed no one on their way through the camp. Castiel led him to one at the very rear, smaller than the others. The door wasn't open like the others, and there was a sign on the handle saying _Do Not Disturb_. Castiel ignored the sign and knocked once on the wood before opening the door and going in. Dean hesitated before following him.

Like the cabin Dean had been held in, the walls were log, there was a bed and table and chairs. The difference was that there was a man stretched out on the bed, fast asleep. There was an old-fashioned manual typewriter and stacks of paper on the table, and what looked suspiciously like a homemade still.

Castiel slapped the man's back and said, "Chuck, wake up! There's someone here to see you."

"S'early," the man groaned.

"And yet you are talking, which means you are awake," Castiel said.

For someone that was supposed to know Sam as well as Dean did, the man wasn't impressive or familiar. As he rolled over and swung his legs around to the floor, Dean got a look into his face, concealed in part by a beard. He had bright, intelligent eyes, and as they took Dean in, they widened.

"Whoa, not Dean," he said.

"Not our Dean," Castiel corrected. "But still Dean."

The man, Chuck, rubbed his hands over his face. "Oh, man, just because I know it's coming, doesn't make it easier."

"You knew this was coming?" Dean asked. "Knew what was coming?"

"You," Castiel said. "Dean, this is the prophet Chuck."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "This is a joke, right?"

Dean didn't think he had ever met anyone who looked less like a prophet. And what was with the still? What kind of holy man got juiced?

"Not a holy man," Chuck said tiredly, "and if you'd been here longer you'd know exactly why the still is needed."

Dean gaped at the man. Had he seriously just read Dean's mind? The only person he'd known who could do that was Missouri and she at least looked the part of a psychic.

"No, I didn't read your mind. I just knew what you were thinking."

"You're not helping Chuck," Castiel said. "You're just confusing him. Dean, Chuck is…"

"A writer," Chuck supplied.

"A writer," Castiel agreed. "His books are about you and Sam."

Dean walked across the room and sat down at the table. It wasn't that he believed; it was just that this was too much for him to take and he needed a moment to get his head around the fact Castiel thought screwing with him was a good idea today of all days.

"Castiel wouldn't do that," Chuck said.

"Stop that!" Dean snapped.

"Yes," Castiel said firmly. "Stop, Chuck."

Chuck nodded and sighed. "Fine. I was just trying to prove my point."

"How about you prove your point some with some truth?" Dean asked. "You're psychic?"

"No. I am not reading your mind in the present; I just know what you're thinking, what I'll say and what you'll be thinking in return because I dreamed this whole conversation already." He braced his hands on his knees and drew a breath. "Okay, around eight years ago, I started having these dreams. Really intense dreams. They were about you and Sam. The very first one was Sam in Miner's Delight. From there you joined the dreams and things seemed… fascinating." He looked a little ashamed. "You've gotta understand I didn't know they were real back then. I thought they were just dreams. So I started writing them down as fiction. On a whim, I sent them off to a publisher. They liked them, so they started printing."

"You're telling me you novelized our lives and sold it as books?"

Chuck nodded and got to his feet. He crossed to the table where the typewriter was and picked up a book. He threw it to Dean who caught it and read the synopsis on the back aloud. "The Winchesters are down to the wire with Dean's deal. Will Sam be able to conquer Lilith in time or is he doomed to fail?" He tossed the book down onto the bed, not even wanting to touch it.

"You sold this?" he asked. "My story. Hell. All of it?"

"I only sold the stories until your deal came due and then the publishers went bust. I've been writing it all down since though." He looked apologetic. "I'm sorry, Dean. I truly didn't know you were real. I thought they were just inspirational dreams."

"Some dreams," Dean grunted, and then he shook his head. "If you didn't know we were real, how are you here now? You usually go looking for fictional characters to saddle up with?"

"The world ended," Chuck said. "It got worse and worse, and then I dreamed about Dean setting up the camp. I thought maybe it was worth a shot to see if anyone was actually here. I came and found Dean and the others." He smiled slightly. "Dean was even more angry about it than you. He punched me so hard that I was concussed for days."

"Don't blame him," Dean said. He was a little bitter about the whole thing still. To have this man knowing what they were thinking and feeling felt like a violation. "Have you always had this… ability?" he asked. "I mean, you've always known what we were thinking?"

Chuck nodded. "The first time Sam came to your home, he fell asleep on the couch. You thought it was just exhaustion, but you hoped some remnant of _your_ Sam remained and made him feel safe with you still."

Dean nodded. He believed. It wasn't a good feeling though, having his mind and thoughts open to a stranger. He was more pissed about that than the idea that other strangers knew his story from books, though. Sam would be beyond angry if he knew… Sam could never know though. The realization felt like a knife in his guts. "Cas says you know Sam well enough to know what he would do," Dean said, trying to force away thoughts of his brother's death.

Chuck nodded. "Perhaps. I do know him as well as it is possible to know someone after so many years of knowing his thoughts and feelings."

"So? What would Sam say?"

Chuck glanced at Castiel and they shared a moment of communication. "When Zachariah brought you here, Sam had just killed himself," Chuck stated. "Do you know why?"

"Because he couldn't bear what he had done," Dean said.

"No. He did it because he thought it would save the world. Lucifer took a vessel before Sam died. It wasn't the right vessel, merely a stopgap, but it was enough that he could focus his will enough to come to Sam in a dream. Dean, Lucifer's true vessel was Sam. When Sam heard that, he knew he had to do what he could to stop Lucifer taking him. That's why shot himself. He was trying to save the world."

Dean felt wetness on his face and thumbed it away. He didn't want to cry in front of this man, even though he had been apparently been privy to every tear that had fallen for years now.

Sam had died to save. How could he have ever believed it was anything else? That was what Sam did. He killed himself to stop Yellow-Eyes. He took on the curse of the blood even though it went against everything in him, to save Dean and then to kill Lilith. Sam saved. That was what he did, even when it didn't work out.

"Thank you, Chuck," he said quietly. "I needed to hear that."

"I know," Chuck said.

Dean forced a smile. "Of course you do."

At that moment, the other Dean stomped into the room. He looked from face to face and said, "Good. You've been talking to him. You know the deal?"

He nodded. "Yeah. He explained everything."

"And you know what you've got to do?"

"I know exactly what needs to happen next."

"Good. Come with me. We need to talk."

* * *

They were congregated in a large building that Dean could tell from the smell was usually used as a cafeteria.

Dean was sitting between Ellen and Castiel at a table and they were all looking up at Dean's future self where he stood, speaking clearly but passionately as he toyed with an old gun in his hands. "We have been waiting for this since the war began, and we finally have it. Tonight, we're going after Lucifer, and we're going to kill him." He turned the colt over in his hands, looking at it with an expression of awe.

"How?" someone at the back of the room asked.

"Well, Risa, I figured I'd point this and shoot."

"And you're going to get past all the demons guarding him… how?"

"That's our job," Ellen said stiffly. "We've got the demon knife, Cas has his angel blade, and regular guns will slow them down if we take out kneecaps."

"Okay," the woman, Risa, said. "And how are we going to _find_ the devil?"

"We know where he is," Dean replied. "That demon we caught a couple weeks ago spilled his secrets."

"And you believed him?" Risa asked.

"Trust me, I didn't give him the chance to lie." There was darkness in his eyes that told Dean exactly how he'd gotten the truth from the demon. He was torturing again. "You don't have to come," he went on. "None of you do. You owe nothing to me. I just figured I should give you the option to come seeing as you all owe Satan for every friend and family member he stole from you." He locked eyes with Dean. "We owe him."

Dean nodded. Lucifer was the reason Sam was gone. They all, Dean, Ellen, Jo, Castiel, they all owed him for what he had done to them.

"If you're in, meet me at the trucks in fifteen minutes," Dean said. "If not, none of us will hold it against you."

There was scraping of chairs as people got to their feet and creaking of the plank floor as they exited the room leaving him, Ellen, Jo, Castiel and the other Dean alone. He came to their table and sat down, setting the colt down in front of him.

"How many you think we'll get?" Ellen asked.

He shrugged. "I don't know. Doesn't matter how many, I guess. Lucifer is going to let us through anyway. He'll want us to see."

"He'll want _you_ to see," Jo corrected.

Dean nodded. "Maybe. You still in?"

"Of course," Ellen said, casting her daughter a sad glance. "To the end." She patted Jo's hand on the table. "Come on, honey. We should gear up."

Jo nodded, smiled a little sadly, and she and Ellen walked from the room.

Dean watched them go, trying to make sense of his tangled thoughts. There was something very wrong happening. He could tell by the look in Ellen's eyes. He had seen in before, after Sam took down Yellow-Eyes. She was mourning.

Sick realization settled over him and he sucked in a breath. "This is a suicide mission!"

Dean nodded slowly. "Wondered when you'd work it out."

"It might not necessarily be suicide," Castiel said. "Ellen will have the knife and Jo will have my blade. They've got the best chance at coming out of out of it."

"And you?" Dean asked. "And the rest of the people he's guilt tripped into coming along?" He thumbed at his future self.

"Me?" Castiel said. "I will almost certainly die. The others… they know the risk. If they come, any of them, it will be because they think this is worth a life."

Dean shook his head, sickened. This was going to kill them and they knew it. How could Ellen let it happen? How could she let Jo go into this, knowing she could die? The Ellen he had known hadn't even wanted Jo to hunt because of the risk.

"But… Jo," he said mournfully.

"It's her choice," His counterpart said doggedly.

"No! It's not her choice to throw herself in front of the bus."

"Like it wasn't Sam's?" the other Dean asked. "You don't understand. You haven't lived through what we have. For us, this is our cause and our reward. Whoever dies will get out of this damned world and get to live in Heaven. Believe me, that's better than what we're living with now."

"How do you know Heaven's better?" Dean asked angrily. "You spent much time there?"

"I have," Castiel said. "It is a reward for them. Trust me."

"I won't let you do this!"

"Thought you might say that," Dean said, getting tiredly to his feet. "Which is why I have to do this." He snapped out the hand holding the colt and cracked in into the back of Dean's head. He fell forward, unconscious before he hit the table. Again.

* * *

Dean didn't fight his way to consciousness. He woke with a start and Zachariah's fingers pulling back from his forehead.

"Up and at 'em," Zachariah said. "You can't sleep the day away when there are so many exciting things happening."

Dean lurched to his feet, knocking back the chair he had sat on. "Where are they?" he asked.

"Not far."

"Take me," Dean said desperately. "I have to stop them."

"Stop them killing the Devil? That seems rather stupid to me."

"Stop them killing themselves. They're going into this to die. I can't let that happen."

Zachariah whistled. "Wow. Talk about a superhero complex. Come on then, Dean. Let's see what you can do."

Dean he fought the urge to pull back as Zachariah reached for him. He didn't want that angel touching him. He held still though and didn't flinch when Zachariah's strong fingers clasped around his arm. There was the now familiar but still disconcerting feeling of being moved without his instruction, and then there was a warm breeze on his face and the air was filled with the scent of flowers. He looked around and saw he was in front of a large, white building with a sign declaring it as the _Jackson County Sanitarium_.

"That's it, Dean," Zachariah said. "Take it all in. Don't look back."

There was something about the way he said it that made fear curdle in Dean's gut. He turned slowly and gagged at what he saw.

Ellen was face down on the ground, a large stain of blood on the back of her khaki shirt. Her right arm was stretched out, reaching for something. Jo was facing the sky with wide, unknowing eyes. Her hand was at her side, an inch from her mother's reach. Dean moaned. "Oh, God."

"Told you not to look back," Zachariah said.

Dean ignored him and kneeled beside Jo. With a tender touch, he cupped her cheek and then closed her eyes. She looked peaceful now, almost as if she was sleeping.

"I am so sorry," he whispered.

There was the crack of a gun away and Dean jerked up straight.

"Run, Dean!" Zachariah said. "You might even make it in time."

Dean ran. He sprinted toward the sound of the gunshot, his heart screaming out in pain for what he had seen. Ellen. Jo. He wanted to howl his misery.

He saw another body ahead of him and his heart clenched again. It was Castiel. He was lying on the ground, a rifle still gripped in his hand. Dean staggered to a halt and bent once again to close his eyes, but then they blinked and a pained gaze fixed on him. "Go!" he moaned. "Stop him."

"Cas…" Dean started.

"Go!"

Dean went. He raced around the building, not sure of what he would find, only knowing he had to be there.

He turned a corner and skidded to a halt at what he saw. The man was standing with his back to him, but Dean would recognize the too long hair and broad shoulders in a crowd of hundreds.

"Sam!" he gasped.

Sam turned and his wide eyes fixed on Dean with shock.

Dean rushed forward, his arms coming up to hold his brother, his fingers fisting in his jacket and his breaths coming shaky. He thought Sam must be able to feel his heart pounding against his ribs. His emotions were chaotic; he was overwhelmed and deliriously happy and devastated for his lost friends all at once. He didn't even notice at first that Sam's hands weren't holding him in return. When he did, he pulled back and said in a confused tone, "Sammy? What's wrong?"

"Sammy," he sighed. "I haven't heard that in a long time."

Dean shook his head, trying to make sense of his thoughts. "You died," he said. "I saw your body. How are you here?"

"The angels brought me back," Sam said stiffly. "After I shot myself, I woke up in The Roadhouse. Castiel said it had to have been Lucifer. I _was_ dead, but I came back. Then Lucifer found me." There was bitterness in his voice.

"I don't understand. You've been here since you died?"

"Since just about a week after I woke up. He came to The Roadhouse one night." Sam sighed. "I thought he was going to kill you all, I was sure of it, so when he took me, I didn't fight. I wasn't scared. I thought you'd get me back." He glared at Dean. "You didn't. All those hunters, all that knowledge, and you didn't even try. Lucifer told me. He said there wasn't even a vaguest attempt at a rescue."

"I…" Dean shook his head. "I don't know what happened. It wasn't me. I am not this time's Dean. I am from 2009. Zachariah brought me here."

"I know," Sam said. "Lucifer has his spies in the camp. They told him what was happening when the others stormed the place. They're all dead now."

"Sam, I'm sorry. I don't know what happened, why I didn't come, but I'm here now. We have to get out of here before Lucifer comes."

"Lucifer can't come, Dean. You finally did something right in your life. You killed him. I saw it happen. I guess I owe you, or the other you, my thanks. After five years of constant torture, _that_ part is over."

"He's dead?"

"They both are," Sam said, satisfied. "Dean killed Lucifer and I killed Dean."

Dean took an involuntary step back. "You killed him?"

"Don't you think he deserved it? After everything he did, the things he didn't do, I had my revenge." He smiled grimly. "You don't even know the half of it, do you? Castiel never filled you in. Alastair told me. I broke the last seal killing Lilith, but you broke the first. When you picked up that blade in Hell and tortured that soul, it cracked the first seal. Everything that came after, including what I did, is because the righteous man shed blood in hell. And they don't come more righteous than you, do they?"

"No," Dean hissed. "You're lying."

"You'd like to believe that, wouldn't you? I'm not lying. Not only did you ruin my life coming back, you ruined the world, too." He laughed. "And to think I once thought I was free of you. You went to Hell and I rejoiced. It was gone at last, that albatross around my neck. But you came back. You ruined me once again." His eyes danced with mirth. It was so unlike Sam. It was so unlike him that it couldn't be him.

Dean felt a surge of something like relief; it was the best his body could manage under the circumstances. He had overplayed his hand. Sam had done everything to save Dean from Hell both before the deal came due and after. Dean wasn't an albatross. Sam wouldn't have rejoiced. And even if he was telling the truth about the first seal, he wouldn't give up on Dean now. He would forgive as he had then.

"You are not my brother," Dean said. "Where is he?"

He laughed. "What gave it away?"

"Sam would die for me," Dean said simply.

"He really would."

"Where is he?" Dean asked, enunciating every word carefully.

"In here." He tapped his forehead. "Screaming to be free, but bound too well to break through. I am not Azazel. I am stronger."

"Lucifer," Dean whispered.

"Ten points to our contestant. Yes, I'm Lucifer. It's a pleasure to meet you in person, Dean. I have waited a long time for a chance to talk to you. I was too busy snapping the neck of your counterpart to really chat."

"Get out of him!" Dean commanded.

Lucifer laughed again. "Yeah, that'll work. Sorry, Dean, Sam's mine now." He tilted his head to the side. "But you knew that already, didn't you? I can see the defeat in you. Poor Dean. All alone in the world now."

"Are you going to kill me, too?" Dean asked emotionlessly.

"I could. You'd like that wouldn't you? You are so completely done with the world. You are forgetting something though, Dean. You're just a visitor here. I don't need to kill you because I already have. Your body lies rotting just over there." He gestured to the corner of the building. "I will make you live out these five years before giving you mercy. Would you like a sneak preview of what will happen? Would you like to pay your respects to yourself?"

"Yes," Dean said, and he followed Lucifer, an idea kindling inside him. He couldn't die, he wouldn't, because there was work for him to do still. Dean understood now why Sam had shot himself. It was to stop this monster. But Sam was waiting for him in that past world, or he would be when he woke again and he had to be there. Together they would use the information he had amassed on this trip and he would use it to save the world.

They reached the corner, and Lucifer gestured Dean ahead of him. Dean barely cast his future self's body a passing glance. He was looking for something. He spotted it beside the body. Feigning emotion he didn't feel, he staggered to the body and dropped to his knees.

"This must be quite the mind bend for you," Lucifer said conversationally.

"Not so much," Dean said. "This makes it worth it!"

He grabbed up the colt from his dead self's hand and aimed it at Lucifer's head.

For a moment, Lucifer's eyes widened, and then he laughed. "You won't do it, Dean. You're forgetting who I am. You can't kill your brother."

But he could. Because it wasn't his brother anymore. It was the devil and he had to be stopped. It was what Sam would want.

He started to squeeze the trigger at the same moment a hand clamped down on his shoulder and Zachariah's voice said, "I think you've seen enough."

* * *

Dean opened his eyes in the bar of The Roadhouse. It was empty of all but him and Zachariah.

"No need to thank me," Zachariah said smugly.

"Thank you?" Dean spat.

"I brought you away before you had to see your brother die, once again. Aren't you grateful?"

Dean just gaped at him.

"Now, I hope you've learned your lesson?" Zachariah said. "You have seen the world in the toilet because of your misguided choice. Shall I call Michael now or would you like a moment to say goodbye to your brother's corpse?"

Dean shook his head. "I'm doing nothing for you."

"You have to be joking!" he snarled. "After all that, you still need persuading? You didn't learn?"

"I learned plenty, just not what you were trying to show me," Dean said. "I will not now, nor will I ever, say yes."

Zachariah seemed to swell with rage. "Believe me you will. I have you now, Dean. I am going to show you what real pain is. Alastair was an amateur compared to me."

"You'll try," Dean said. "You won't succeed."

"How about this, I take Sam and show him what torture is?"

Dean shook his head again, though he wasn't so sanguine now. "Not going to happen."

"Really, how do you think you're going to stop me?"

"Like this!" Jo shouted from the hall, then there was the sound of a hand slapping down on plaster and a force pulsed through the room. Zachariah was dragged away.

Dean turned to the door where Jo stood with a bloody palm. "Thank you."

She nodded. Her face was wrought with grief and pain, and Dean reacted automatically. He crossed the room and pulled her into his arms.

She began to cry against him, and Dean heard garbled words through the sobs. "Sam's gone."

Dean eased her away from him and cupped her cheeks in his hands. He pressed a kiss to her forehead and said, "Not forever. Sam's coming back."

* * *

 **So… I think I am breaking my own record for character deaths in this story, and we're only on the fourth chapter. Each and every one had to be done though. Trust me, okay?**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	5. Chapter 5

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy for the fab beta work. Also thanks to Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2 for all their help beating out the ideas.**

 **Thank you all for reading, reviewing and supporting the story. I really appreciate it.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Five**_

"What do you mean?" Ellen asked in a dead voice from the doorway.

"I mean he'll be back," Dean said. "I can't explain it all now, it's kinda confusing, but I am sure, _sure_ he'll come back." He released Jo and walked toward Ellen and squeezed her shoulder. "Trust me, okay?"

"Did you make a deal, Dean?"

"No," he said quickly. "This isn't me. This is, or will be, the angels."

"You promise me?"

He laid a hand on his heart. "I swear, Ellen, I have not made a deal." He waited, watching the truth sink in, and then he asked, "Where is he?"

"He's in Mom's bedroom," Jo said quietly

Dean wondered why they had put him there and not in his own bed, but from the look on Ellen's face, there was a good reason, so he didn't question it. He just nodded and said, "I'm going to clean him up. I don't want him waking up all bloody."

Ellen nodded and Dean left the room. As he passed Ash's room and went into the kitchen, he heard someone crashing around through the closed door.

 _It will be over soon,_ he thought as he carried on into the kitchen.

There was a comprehensive first aid kit under the sink with a large stainless steel bowl they used when they were cleaning wounds. It would serve the purpose Dean had. He took it into the bathroom and filled it with warm water; then he took two washcloths, soap, and a towel from the cupboard and carried everything into Ellen's room. He purposely didn't look at the bed at first, giving himself time to prepare. He set the bowl down on the bedside table and then drew a breath and turned.

Sam was pale and perfectly still. There was no fooling himself into thinking Sam was sleeping. He didn't look innocent or childlike. He just looked dead and it made Dean's stomach roll.

 _He'll come back,_ he reminded himself. _I just have to wait and he'll come back._

"Won't be a minute, Sammy," he said then left the room and made his way back to his and Sam's bedroom. Their duffels were on the dresser at the end of Dean's bed. He took Sam's and opened it. The clothes were neatly rolled and folded to military precision, just as John Winchester had taught them both as children. He took out clean clothes for Sam, and then went back to Ellen's room.

"I'm here," he said, and then set to work. He unbuttoned Sam's shirt and gently manoeuvred his arms out of it, as if being too rough would hurt him. His skin was cool. Dean wondered how long he had been gone. Time that passed in the future obviously hadn't passed in the same time way as it had here—he hadn't been gone a day. He guessed at minutes. Just long enough for Ellen and Jo to get Sam inside and for their hearts to break.

He set to work cleaning Sam up, washing away the blood and the dirt from the ground where he had lain and drying his skin carefully, leaving no trace of dampness. He was half done when there was a knock on the door. He laid a towel over Sam's chest, covering the damage the bullet had done in case Ellen or Jo wanted to come in, and went to open the door.

Bobby was in the hall. He looked grave and his eyes were a little bloodshot. "Ellen called," he said. "Do you need any help?"

Dean shook his head quickly. He wanted to be alone with his brother to do this. Bobby looked like he had expected the refusal. "You could go see Ash though," Dean said. "Maybe take him a drink."

Looking relieved to have something to do, Bobby nodded and walked along the hall to Ash's room with its _Doctor Badass_ sign.

Dean closed the door carefully and started when he saw the angel standing beside the bed. He was looking down at Sam, his brow furrowed and eyes sad.

"Cas?"

Castiel dragged his eyes from Sam to Dean. "What happened?"

"He shot himself," Dean said, then shook his head briskly. "It's okay though. He'll be fine."

"He will," Castiel agreed.

"Is that why you're here?" Dean asked hopefully. "Are you going to save him?"

"Sorry, no. I do not have the power to do that now. But someone will."

"Yeah. That's what I heard, too."

Castiel frowned. "Heard from whom?"

"It's a long story, Cas, and to be honest, I'd really like to be alone with Sam right now. Ellen and Jo are in the bar and they could probably do with some reassurance from you about Sam coming back."

"Of course. I will speak to them." Castiel passed Dean and went into the hall, closing the door quietly behind him.

"Just you and me again, Sammy," Dean said and resumed his ministrations.

* * *

Sam drew a heaving breath, dragging air into empty lungs as his eyes flew open. All he could do at first was breathe, lying on his back, feeling his slower than usual heart-rate build its pace to a gallop. Then sensation came to the rest of his body, fingers tingling and legs cramping, and he bolted upright.

"Sammy!"

Sam's eyes snapped to the side and he saw Dean, wide-eyed and smiling with relief, beside him. "Thank God," he said.

Sam looked down at his chest, noting as he did that he was now wearing a different shirt to the one he had been wearing when he'd gone out to the yard, and patted right above his heart. There was no pain, no tenderness. He was fine.

But he remembered shooting himself. He had a clear memory of pulling the trigger and the absolute peace that had followed. It had happened. Now he was back and that could mean nothing good.

"You're okay," Dean said quickly. "They fixed you right up."

"Who fixed me up?" he asked darkly. "What the _hell_ did you do?"

Dean shook his head jerkily. "It wasn't me, I swear, Sam. It was the angels."

"Castiel?"

"No, he said he couldn't. I actually don't know which one did it. I didn't see them. One minute you were gone, and the next… You're back. Thank God, you're back." His voice shook and he turned away to wipe at his face.

Sam believed him. Dean wouldn't lie to him about this, not now. He swung his legs around to the edge of the bed and stood. Dean was still sitting opposite. He was turned away from Sam, and his shoulders were shaking. Sam felt a pang of sadness for his brother. He had been through so much and Sam just kept piling it on him. It was never his intention. He was trying to make the world better when he did the things that hurt Dean so badly. He couldn't even say he regretted what he had done to make Dean feel like this, because he never did. It had always been worth it. Yellow-Eyes, Ellsworth, Samhain, now his attempt to escape Lucifer, had been for the greater good. And this time it hadn't even worked.

"Shit," he breathed.

Dean looked up at him, his face twisted with pain and relief and Sam reacted instinctively, knowing what Dean needed. He tugged him to his feet and then pulled him into a hug. After a moment's pause—possibly to wrap his mind around what was happening—Dean's hands came up to Sam's back and held him in return. For a long time they clung to each other, and then Sam released Dean and gripped the back of his neck, ducking his head so he was in Dean's line of sight. "I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have done it like that."

"You shouldn't have done it at all!"

Sam opened his mouth to argue, but Dean spoke over him. "I know about Lucifer. I get why you did it, but you shouldn't have. We would have known it would do no good if we had spoken to Cas first. All that pain, for all of us, was for nothing."

"You would never have let me do it if you'd known."

"No, I wouldn't. I would have found another way."

Sam smiled sadly, but he didn't argue. Deep down, Dean already knew there was no other way. He didn't need to hear it.

"We should get out there," Dean said. "There are people waiting for you."

Sam knew that, and he knew he deserved whatever they threw at him for what he had done, but that didn't mean he was ready for it. He had hurt people doing what he had, though, and it wasn't fair to them to duck out on the consequences.

He nodded, took a breath, and made for the door. It flew open before he could get there and Ellen marched in. She took one look at him, threw her arms around him and clung to him like she was drowning. Sam returned the embrace for a moment, and then she yanked out of his arms and gripped his shoulders, shaking him hard. "You can't keep doing this to me, Sam!" she growled through the tears that were streaming down her cheeks. "You can't keep leaving!"

"I'm sorry," Sam said, and he was sorry for hurting her. He just wasn't sorry for trying to do the right thing.

She shook him once more and then cupped his cheeks in her hands. "I love you."

"I know," he said with a sad smile. "I've always known."

She smiled. "So much, Sam. Remember that next time you get a damn fool idea in your head to leave us."

"I will. I promise."

"Come on," she said. "People are waiting."

Sam glanced back at Dean who nodded, and then he followed Ellen out of the room and into the bar. He felt momentarily overwhelmed as he caught sight of Ash's and Jo's wet cheeks and wide smiles, and Bobby's and Castiel's sombre faces. He wanted to turn back and run, but he couldn't. Dealing with their sadness was the consequence of what he had done, and he had to face it like a man.

He opened his arms to Jo who fell into them. He comforted and apologized again; he accepted Ash's hand on his shoulder and concerned questions. He told them he was okay now, that it was fine, and he was sorry. He said it so many times he felt that he would never be able to say the word again without remembering that day.

* * *

Dean watched Sam forcing himself to make it through the reunions with the people who loved him, and he wondered if he was even a little grateful to be alive. He put on a masterful pretence of it, but there was something in his eyes that made Dean think he would have preferred to have stayed gone, and not just because of Lucifer.

When they had all finally greeted him, expressed their anger and relief, Ellen got them all a drink and they sat around the corner table.

"There's a lot we need to talk about," Dean said, locking eyes with Sam, "and I want to start by saying sorry, too."

"Sorry?" Sam asked, raising his eyebrows in question.

I should have known what you were going to do and I should have stopped you."

"You were sleeping, Dean," Sam said quietly.

"I was, but you wouldn't have missed someone preparing to do it. I shouldn't have missed it either."

Sam shook his head dolefully. "That's crap." He looked from one face to the other and sighed. "All of you, anyone else that is thinking that crap, you're wrong. You didn't miss warning signs. I didn't know myself I was going to do in until a few minutes before I pulled the trigger."

"Why did you do it?" Jo asked.

Sam took a swig of his whiskey and said, "Because I thought it would save the world. I'm Lucifer's true vessel. He came to me in a dream and told me. He was so sure, so damn confident that I would say yes, that he convinced me. I thought the only way to avert what was coming was to die, so I killed myself." He said it without emotion, as if he didn't know the words themselves burned them all.

"It didn't work though," Ellen said. "Thank God. Someone saved you."

It didn't look as though 'saved' was the word Sam would use, but he didn't dispute it.

"It was an angel," Castiel interjected. "Lucifer, Zachariah, Michael himself maybe. They are the ones that benefit the most from Sam being alive."

"Whoever it was, let's just be thankful," Jo said quietly, then she turned to Dean. "Things were pretty messed up, and I didn't see too well, but Zachariah was the one that took you, right?"

"Took you?" Sam frowned. "Took you where? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Dean said with a fond smile. "And as for where he took me, it's kinda a long story."

Ellen leaned back in her seat and raised the mostly full bottle of whiskey. "We've got time."

Dean nodded, wondering where to start. He thought right at the very beginning was the spot. "You know about Croatoan, right?"

"The virus?" Ellen asked.

"The demon virus that makes people crazy with bloodlust, yeah, that one."

Sam nodded thoughtfully. "How do you know about it?"

"Because Zachariah shoved me five years into the future, into a world that was rife with it. People all over were infected, and those who weren't infected were doing their best to keep it from spreading."

"Jesus," Ellen breathed, looking stunned. Dean relished her shock, not out of malice or a desire to tell a good story, but because it was _his_ Ellen and not the hardened hunter she was in that future world—the Ellen who seemed to have been immune to emotions such as shock.

"It was a mess," Dean said redundantly—as if it could have been anything but a mess.

"You must have put up a hell of a fight to get out," Sam said. "I only had to deal with a handful back in the day, and I was very nearly taken out. How did you manage against a world of them?"

"Mostly, I avoided them," Dean said. "Killed one and floored another. Then I got to what you'd call a 'safe' place, and they were kept out."

"Safe place?" Sam asked.

Dean nodded. "It was an old summer camp. There was a group of 'clean' there." He hesitated, not sure how to say what needed to be said. He redirected. "You were there, Ellen. Jo and Cas, too."

"And me?" Bobby asked.

Dean looked down at the table. "You wouldn't leave your place," he said apologetically. "You didn't make it."

Bobby nodded thoughtfully.

There was a moment's silence, and then Ash spoke and Dean's heart sank. "I didn't either, did I?" When Dean hesitated, he said, "No, it's okay. Not much use for a computer genius at the end of the world."

"And I wasn't there either," Sam stated.

"You were…" Dean drew a breath. "It was different there, Sammy. Things happened."

Sam eyed him shrewdly. "Things like Lucifer?" His face paled. "I _was_ Lucifer, wasn't I? Oh God, I said yes."

Dean flinched away from the horror in his voice. "It's okay. It doesn't mean you will. We know things this time that can help us fight it. You won't say yes this time, I know it."

"That is if you said yes in that time," Castiel said.

"Cas, man, I saw it," Dean said gently, wanting to spare Sam but needing to explain. "I saw Lucifer, and he _was_ Sam."

"I believe that is what you saw, but that doesn't mean it was the truth. Did you see anything else that would make you question whether it was real?"

Dean considered. "Yeah," he said slowly, thinking of Ash, infected but left alive and alone; Ellen and Jo and his future self changed so completely they were like Sam back in the days after their father died. Castiel's outfit and easy manner. "I saw some stuff…"

"Your worst nightmare, yes?"

Dean nodded. "Parts of it, yeah."

"Then I don't believe you saw the real future," Castiel said decisively. "Zachariah showed you what he thought would make you agree to his plan."

Dean felt a wave of relief at his words, and he sighed, an action that was echoed around the room by the others. The only one who didn't look relieved was Sam. He still looked horrified.

"Sam," he said firmly. "It wasn't real."

"You can't be sure of that," Sam replied. "Maybe me saying yes was the one truth of it."

"I don't believe it," Bobby said. "If I had to lay money on any one of us resisting Lucifer, my money would be on you, Sam. You've proven yourself over and over. You died to prevent yourself saying yes. Just because you were brought back, doesn't mean your resolve is any less. If I didn't believe that, I'd be begging you to let me lock you down in my basement."

"We have faith, Sam," Ellen said gently. "You should, too."

Sam looked down at his lap, looking like he wanted nothing more than to flee the room. "I won't say yes," he said, speaking so quietly he had to be addressing himself. "I won't do it."

Dean placed a hand on his shoulder. "We know, Sammy. We know."

"You said we know things that can help us," Jo said. "Things like what?"

Dean took a breath and looked at Sam almost apologetically. "In that future, vision, whatever it was, the plan was to use the colt to kill Lucifer."

Sam nodded energetically. "Oh. Wow. Why didn't we think of that?"

Dean shrugged. "I don't know. Obviously, we don't have it, and we have no idea where it is, but that has to be the way. It can kill anything, right?"

"That's the legend," Sam said.

"Hold on," Ellen said. "You say we were going after Satan with the colt in that future, but he was in _Sam._ We would never do that."

Jo nodded. "She's right. It _had_ to have been made up, because that just wouldn't happen."

Sam's face darkened. "Okay. We need to get this out there now. It doesn't matter if Lucifer is in me or Santa Claus, we get a chance, we take him down. Understood?" When Ellen looked like she would argue, he pushed on. "This is the world. No one's, not a single one of our lives, is worth that."

Jo crossed her arms over her chest. "That's easy for you to say. You're the one that'll be gone. The rest of us will be the ones you leave behind. How is that fair?"

Sam shrugged. "It's not fair. Life's not fair. No one knows that better than us. Doesn't change anything though. It's what we've got to do. There are millions at risk, Jo. One life doesn't outweigh that."

He was right, of course, but Dean hated it. He couldn't lose his brother again. The only solution was for them was to find the colt and take Lucifer down before he had even a chance at getting consent from Sam. Simple. Although of course it wasn't simple. It wasn't impossible though. They would get it done.

Castiel cleared his throat. "I have what might be an alternative solution."

All eyes drifted to him and Sam gestured for him to go on with a wave of the hand.

"God," Castiel said. "Michael at least sees the battle between him and Lucifer as God's will. I refuse to believe my Father would want them to fight when it threatens His greatest creation. I believe if we could just find Him, He could help us."

"Okay," Sam said slowly. "And how do we find God?"

"That's the complicated part," Castiel said. "He hasn't been seen in millennia."

Dean sighed. For a moment, it had seemed like Cas's idea could actually work. They had something like a plan to save millions that didn't involve Sam dying, again.

"You said complicated," Ellen observed. "You didn't say impossible."

"There is something that can help me trace Him."

Sam shook his head dolefully. "Okay, and I'm guessing this is a Holy Grail kinda something."

"Not at all. In fact, it is in this room with us. Dean has it."

Dean frowned. "I do?"

"Yes. The amulet you wear as a pendant. That is so much more than jewellery. In God's presence, it burns hot. I need you to let me have it."

Dean laid a hand over the pendant, feeling the cool metal against his palm. It was more than jewellery to him already. It was a physical representation of his childhood with Sam. It was a gift.

"Please," Castiel said.

Dean glanced at Sam who nodded. Of course, he was being stupid hesitating. This could save the world. If Sam was willing to give up his life for it, Dean should be able to at least give up a necklace. His voice was still reluctant as he said, "Okay," though. He lifted the amulet from his chest and unlooped the cord from his neck. He clenched it in a fist for a moment and then held it out to Castiel who took it.

"Just… don't lose it," Dean said.

Castiel nodded solemnly. "I will take the utmost care." He tucked it away in his pocket. "There is one more thing I need to do. You all need protection from angels. There is little I can do, even if I was to stay at your side at all times, but I can do this."

"Do what?" Sam asked.

"Do you remember the sigils that hid you and Anna from me and Uriel?"

Sam nodded. "Sure. They'll stop angels sensing us, right? Go for it."

Castiel looked apologetic. "It is going to hurt."

Sam shrugged. "Pain's nothing new to any of us."

"Very well," Castiel said, leaning over the table and pressing a hand to Sam's chest. Sam hissed with pain and flinched back. With a slight smile, Castiel said, "I did warn you."

Sam laughed softly. "You did. Thanks, Cas."

* * *

Lucifer stood in the corner of the bar, watching them with a wide smile curling his lips. They didn't know he was there. He was hidden so completely that not even the other angel could sense him. Of course he couldn't sense them either since the angel had carved sigils into their ribs, but he could see them while he was there.

He had listened to their conversation, and he had laughed silently. They had no idea. Zachariah could show them a dozen futures to scare them, but it would never work. Sam didn't need to be persuaded; it was his destiny to let Lucifer in.

There was no fear in the mention of the colt either. Lucifer would not be killed by it, and though it would hurt if they ever managed to find it and use it, he had suffered more before. It would be nothing compared to being cast into Hell by his own brother.

The room cleared of them all but the older man, the woman and Dean Winchester. Sam himself had gone to clean up the room where his body had lain, a macabre task that Lucifer would have expected from no one else.

"Ellen," Dean Winchester said tentatively. "Did you ever take a picture of me and Sam in here without us seeing."

She smiled sheepishly and walked around the bar. She picked something up and held it out. Lucifer could see it was a framed photograph of the brothers at the table they had just vacated. They were laughing together.

"This one?" she asked.

The older Winchester nodded, looking troubled. "Yeah. That one."

* * *

 **So… So they all made it through this one alive. That's progress right?**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	6. Chapter 6

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy, Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2 for all that you ladies do. It's much appreciated.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Six**_

"Does my hair look okay?" Marie asked, turning her head from side to side in the mirror propped up on the shaving basin, searching for any long strands that had escaped her pins and the hat.

Peter looked up at his wife from the bowie knife he was running the whetstone along and appraised her carefully. He knew this was important, as they were not some fly-by-night outfit. They were progressives and this was the reenactment of the Battle of Fort Wilcox. They weren't going to be the ones messing up with Marie's hair slipping from its cap at the wrong moment. Once the battle started it was fair game. She would be one of the brave women who defied convention and rules and fought alongside their men.

"It's just fine," he said. "You look good."

She smiled her appreciation and smoothed down the front of her blue coat.

Around them was a bustle of activity. The truly dedicated, Peter and Marie among them, had slept the night before under the stars, wanting to fully immerse themselves in the experience. Others still, those playing the part of officers, had pitched tents and slept on rope cots. The rest of the troops arrived over the morning, joining friends in their preparations.

Franklin Pryce, their Union general for the day, moved to the center of the field and blew a whistle. Silence fell over the group as he called to them all in his deep bass voice. "Union! Fall into line."

Peter got to his feet and slid the knife into the sheaf on his belt. "Ready, dear?"

Marie picked up her rifle and nodded.

There was movement all around them as people stood. Couples separated in their roles—soldiers and nurses, surgeons and observers—said their farewells and moved into place along the lines of their army. Peter and Marie were on the front line, given their position by seniority earned through years of reenactments. They would be among the first to fight.

Though they stood among friends, neither of them broke character to speak other than to recite familiar lines about their upcoming victory. They looked across the field at their grey uniformed enemy and adrenaline began to pulse through veins in anticipation of a good time.

They had no idea of what was to come.

General Pryce moved to stand at the end of the line, his gaudy uniform a target and rallying point for the forces. Wilkins, the enemy general, walked into the very center so he could be heard despite his rather reedy voice, and shouted, "We are here to honor and remember. Do your duty. Fight. And keep your…" He trailed off as a man from the Confederate side broke ranks and ran toward him with his arms raised.

It was clearly not an attack, which would have been frowned upon, but Marie didn't know why someone would have broken character to interrupt at this crucial moment. It was a short man, and when he reached the general they saw that he barely came to the general's shoulder.

Murmuring broke out, and Peter spoke in a whisper. "What do you think's wrong?"

The Confederate soldier gestured Wilkins down as if he wanted to whisper something to him, and then the horror began. The man whipped his hand across the general's neck and Marie saw the flash of a small blade. Then the blood came. Marie had grown up on a farm and had done more than her share of pig slaughtering, but even she was sickened when she saw the blood gush from the wound and down the general's uniform.

For a moment there was no sound other than the general's gurgles as he tried to draw breath through his ruined windpipe, and then one woman screamed. As if it was permission to react, people began to scream, shout, run both toward and away from the wounded man. Marie stood undecided for a moment; she had been a nurse before the children were born, and she knew she should help, but she also knew with a wound that bad the only help she could give was a hand to hold as he died.

Peter made the decision for her. He pulled on her arm and dragged her toward the trees that created the south border of the field, the way they'd passed through to get to the battlefield.

They _had to_ get out of there. The children, the grandchildren, needed them.

They were into the trees when Marie saw the smoke. Her first thought was that someone had set a fire, but then she realized that it wasn't smoke of a natural sort. It was shaped like a swarm of insects, but it was big and there seemed to be shapes in the smoke, separate pieces. One of the clouds of smoke came right at her, blinding her, and then she felt her mouth being forced open somehow and she choked as it forced its way down her throat.

Then everything changed again. She lost control of her body. She tried to run, but her legs refused to move. She wasn't even breathing right. She had been gasping, trying to draw breath into lungs that felt empty, but now her breaths came steady. Her heart was still beating quickly, but now it was as if she was excited, not scared out of her mind.

"Come on, Marie!" Peter shouted, tugging on her arm but unable to make her move other than to jostle her. "We have to get out of here!"

She tried to speak, to tell him she couldn't, but her jaw remained closed. He turned back to look at her and his mouth dropped open and his skin leeched of color. "Your eyes!"

"Pretty, right?" Marie said, though she had no control of it. Her hand reached out to his belt and she tugged him forward. There was a second's confusion as Marie tried to make sense of what was happening, but then the bowie knife was out of its sheaf and in her hand.

Marie tried harder than ever to stop herself, to take control of her movements, but she could do nothing but watch, feeling her heart increasing its pace and her lips curving into a wide smile as her hand brought the knife up to Peter's throat and thrust it into him. She felt the knife jar as it reached bone and then the warmth as the blood splashed over her hand where it held the handle of the knife. Inside her own mind, she screamed, but there was no sound anyone could hear.

Then a voice whispered to her, "Thanks for the loaner," and the smoke was pouring out of her again. As the last of it left her, she fell to her knees, her screams now freeing from her lips. "Peter!" she cried. "Oh God! Peter!" Her hands fluttered uselessly over the wound, but she knew there was no saving him. He had died before he even hit the ground.

She had just murdered her own husband.

* * *

Dean was in the bar, talking with Ellen as he restocked the fridges and Ellen wiped a cloth along the top of the counter. Their topic of conversation was purposely light. They didn't talk about Lucifer or the apocalypse; they discussed the rise in trade the past couple nights as hunter congregated in the bar to discuss and try to makes sense of the sudden rise in demon activity. Ellen was saying she might have to get staff in to help her if it carried on when Sam came into the room with a phone in his hand held out to Dean. "You left this in the bedroom," he said, "Bobby called. I didn't get to it in time."

At that moment, the phone rang again and Dean answered. "Bobby?"

" _Dean, please tell me you're in Texas or you've got that angel hanging around with you right now."_

"No. We're home, and Cas isn't here. What's wrong?"

" _Had a call from a hunter named Garth. He's in Texas and all hell's breaking loose at a Civil War reenactment. Says it's demons. I'm the other end of the country, and I can't leave this job without people dying. You boys have to get there. It's Fort Wilcox, Houston."_

"We'll find a way," Dean said. "Don't worry."

" _You be damn careful. Both of you."_

"Always are," Dean said. "I'll call you when I can." He ended the call and raised his eyes heavenward. "Castiel. Got a problem. We're at The Roadhouse. Please hurry."

"What's going on?" Sam asked.

"Demons in Texas causing a riot. Some hunter named Garth clued Bobby in, but he can't get there."

Sam nodded, turned on his heel and jogged out of the bar through the front door. Dean heard the creak of the trunk opening.

At that moment there was a rustling sound and Castiel appeared. "Hello, Dean."

"Cas, you've got to get us to Fort Wilcox in Texas. There are demons causing all kinds of trouble. I think it's really bad."

Castiel nodded. "Of course."

Sam came back into the bar, a duffel slung over his shoulder. "Ready?" he asked. Dean nodded and Sam turned to Cas. "Get us out of here."

Ellen called, "Wait!" but they were already gone.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut and the next moment they were standing in woodland. Sam dropped the duffel and bent to open it. He took out two flasks of holy water and stowed them in each of his shirt pockets. He tucked his Taurus in the back of his pants and picked out a can of salt. "Here, Dean," he said, throwing him the demon knife.

Dean caught it automatically, and then the reality caught up with him. "What about you?"

"I won't be unarmed," Sam said, tapping his forehead.

"Sam…" Dean started, but Sam spoke over him. "It's not like I can start another apocalypse, Dean."

That wasn't remotely what Dean had been thinking. His worry had been for Sam physically. Using his powers was hard on him. "You'll hurt yourself," he said.

Sam shook his head. "I'll be careful." A scream rent the air, and Sam jerked as if electrocuted. "No time. Tool up and hurry." He set off away from them at a run.

Dean hurried to fill his pockets with weapons and then he threw the still half-full duffel to Castiel and ran after Sam.

He was barely two hundred yards ahead when he came to a woman bent over the body of a man. Instinctively, he turned to Castiel and said, "Go with Sam. Keep him safe," and then he gently addressed the woman. "You need to get out of here."

"I killed him," she moaned in response. "I couldn't help it. I couldn't stop. The smoke made me do it."

"The smoke!" Dean understood at once. She had been possessed. "Christo!" he said loudly.

She looked up at him but her eyes remained a dull, bloodshot brown. "I killed him."

Hating what he was doing, Dean got to his feet and left the distraught woman behind, continuing in the direction Sam had gone. He came to a large field that was crowded with people running in all directions. There were bodies on the ground, some abandoned and others with people, loved ones surely, trying to rouse them or just crying over them. Some of the bodies weren't yet corpses. They still moaned and cried out in pain.

Dean had never felt more torn. He wanted to help but at the same time he needed to speak to Sam and Castiel before they could start killing.

He spotted them on the other side of the field with a gangly man with dark hair. He sprinted towards them in time to see the man throwing his arms up and saying, "They are innocents. They are my friends!"

"All demon hosts are innocent," Castiel argued.

"He's right," Sam said, drawing stunned looks from both men. Sam turned to Dean. "Keep the knife holstered unless you _have to_ use it. Cas, keep your smiting to yourself. We're getting as many of these people out of here as we can."

The tall man looked relieved, but Castiel seemed annoyed. "Then what are we going to do? We cannot exorcise them when they aren't staying close enough to be affected by the exorcism."

Sam considered for a moment, looking out at the chaos, and then said. "Get them inside. Is there somewhere, Garth?"

"Yes. The visitors center on the other side of the fort."

Sam nodded. "Get them in there. Salt the windows and doors. Lay traps outside. There's paint in that duffel. Get as many inside as you can."

"What are you going to do?" Garth asked.

"Something safer. Something that I will kill you for if you tell another soul about. Understand?"

Garth nodded jerkily. "Okay." He took the proffered duffel from Castiel and set off running.

Sam fixed his eyes on Dean, possibly seeing the arguments brewing in his eyes. "Dean, these are innocent people I can help. I _have to_ help them. Understand?" There was a plea in his voice for Dean to understand, and he did, though he hated the risk it posed to Sam. He nodded.

"Good," Sam said. "Now get to work."

He set off and Dean fought the urge to chase after him, to watch over him; instead, he ran at the first fleeing person he saw. "Come with me!" he commanded. Mercifully, she obeyed. She gripped his hand and they made for the back of the fort.

The visitors center was a redbrick building about the size of an average house. The heavy wood doors were closed, and Dean dragged them open and thrust the woman inside. "Stay in here!" he ordered. "Don't leave no matter what happens, understand?"

Garth was inside too, shaking thick lines of salt along the windows and the door. He glanced at the woman as she went inside and said, "It's okay. We'll take care of you."

"What's happening?" she asked. "Why are people doing this?"

Garth exchanged a look with Dean and Dean shook his head. This woman's life was already changed irrevocably; she didn't need to know it was because of denizens of Hell.

Castiel appeared at that moment, half carrying a young girl who was sobbing uncontrollably and had a large stain of blood on her white nurse's uniform. "It is not hers," Castiel said. "Her mother was killed."

Dean nodded, regretting the death but relieved there was one less person who was mortally injured, and threw himself back into the fray to get someone else to safety.

* * *

Sam made for the first demon he saw, a man with dark red hair and bloodstained hands, but before he could even try to get a grip on the demon's core, it was smoking out into the air. The man dropped to his knees and looked at his bloody hands. "Oh, God," he moaned. "What have I done?"

Sam could do nothing for him. His problem was going to take years of therapy to get through, assuming he didn't die that day. He could try to stack the odds in his favor for survival though. Grabbed the collar of the man's uniform, he dragged him upright and said, "Other side of the fort. There's a safe place and people to help you." When the man just stared blankly at him, Sam shook him roughly. "There are people that love you. Do it for them."

The man nodded jerkily, and when Sam released him, he ran in the direction of the fort.

Even as Sam watched, another demon smoked out of its host and joined the swarm above their heads and another poured into the mouth of a woman who was running toward the trees. Sam saw Dean run past and grab a young girl, she had to be late teens, and drag her toward the fort. Momentarily relieved, Sam took a breath and then sucked it in sharply as he saw a young man pursuing Dean and his rescue. He had a knife in his hand and his eyes were black.

Sam took off after him. The hours spent running the back roads of The Roadhouse paid off. He shouted, "Get her out of here, Dean!" and then launched himself at the young man, catching him around the waist and tackling him to the ground. The demon fought and clawed, but for all its strength, Sam was much bigger and he had the upper hand. He pinned him to the floor with a knee and all his weight on the demon's chest, and searched for the demon's core. It was easy and familiar, easier than it had ever been before, to grip the corrupted thing that was the demon and draw it out. It seemed Lilith had honed his powers in a way they hadn't been before, even though there was no blood left in him. The smoke drifted to the ground and the boy opened blue eyes and promptly burst into tears. "Please don't hurt me," he rasped, his voice constricted by Sam's weight on him.

Sam got quickly to his feet again and pulled the kid up. He moaned in pain, and Sam guessed he would be dealing with a few sore ribs from Sam's attack. He was alive though, and judging from the lack of blood on him, not a murderer.

"There's a safe place," Sam said. "Other side of the fort. Get there and stay there."

Sam turned away and searched the field with his eyes. There were fewer people now, Dean and Castiel were doing their part, but he thought there were also more bodies than there had been before. Even as he watched, a middle-aged man sunk a knife into the back of another fleeing man. The injured man dropped with a cry of pain, and Sam ran toward him. The demon saw him coming and tried to smoke out, but Sam was too fast. He clenched his fist and the demon cried out in pain. Without giving it a moment to recover, Sam drew up his arm and pulled the demon from its host.

He fell into a rhythm. He would find a demon, pin it, exorcise it, send the hosts to Dean if they made it and close their eyes if they didn't. He sometimes saw Dean and Castiel running across the field, towards and away from the fort, as they helped people get to safety. Sam felt a little better whenever he saw them, knowing they were still there and fighting.

In the back of his mind the question teased—why were they doing this? He didn't think it was just apocalyptic high jinks. It felt too controlled and planned for that. The demons were organized. There were only two ways in and out of the fort park, through the forest ahead or the main gate behind, and they were both blocked by demons. And no matter how many of the demons that were guarding the forest Sam took out, there was always another one waiting overhead to replace it.

At some point his head started hurting, and with each exorcism the blood began to flow from his nose a little more, from a trickle to a stream, but he wiped away the blood and pushed away the pain and found another demon he could deal with.

He was staggering away from yet another exorcised demon, exhausted beyond belief but still determined, when he noticed the man standing at the front of the fort. He was average height, wearing a black suit, and when Sam got closer he saw wire-rimmed spectacles and close cropped graying hair. He smiled at Sam, and then turned and walked into the fort.

Sam broke into a graceless run after him, certain that this demon was the reason behind the chaos and massacre. He passed through the stone arch that would once have held gates and then through another into the cool building.

The charity that maintained the fort had recreated one room to look as it would have in the days the fort was active. There were maps spread across a dark wood table and weapons leaning against the wall. High backed chairs were positioned around the table, and it was in one of these that the black-suited man sat.

"Hello, Sam," he said with unexpected familiarity.

Sam didn't bother to reply with words. He just raised a shaky hand and reached for the demon's core.

There was nothing there.

He could sense tremendous power and darkness, but there was no demonic core for him to get a grip on.

The man tittered. "I'm not a demon."

"Then what the hell are you?" Sam asked.

"I… I am your number one fan, Sam Winchester. Thanks to you, I have purpose again. You wouldn't believe how tiring it gets going from one battle to another with no other reason than spilled blood."

Sam frowned. "Still not making anything clearer."

The man smiled. "I will make it easy for you. I can see you're not working at full capacity right now. Exorcising dry will do that to you. Okay… I am one of four. The apocalypse is _our_ time to shine. My steed is red and I am well traveled and almost always occupied by my namesake."

Sam shook his head, trying to think through the pain and tiredness that clouded his mind. Steed… Four… Apocalypse… "Oh no," he groaned.

"By Jove, I think he's got it!"

"War?" Sam sighed, hoping against hope he was wrong.

"Spot on."

Sam grimaced. He was face to face with an actual horseman of the apocalypse. There was no way he was coming out of this intact. "This is all because of you!" he accused. "All the demons killing."

"In way, yes. This is my welcoming committee. The big man himself arranged it as a treat for me. It's not strictly my taste. I prefer to make humans kill of their own accord, but that can wait." He raised a hand and tapped the gold ring on his finger. "You wouldn't believe the things I have planned."

* * *

"In there," Dean said, pushing another man into the now crowded visitors center. Garth received him and began to speak reassuringly to the man, promising he'd be okay. The problem was none of them could guarantee that. Even if Sam exorcised every demon that was in the forest, some of these people had committed murders when possessed. Though it wasn't their fault, they faced a lifetime of trauma if not jail. It was so screwed up it was beyond belief.

He turned away and ran for the field again. There were still people that needed saving, fewer than there had been, but still some. Most of them were either safe in the visitors center or dead. He didn't know how many people had died for this, but every one was one too many.

He got to the field and made for a woman that was bowed over a man, her hands pressed against a gaping stomach wound. She looked up at Dean and said in a shocky voice, "It's stopped bleeding. That's good right?"

Dean knelt and pressed fingers to the throat of the man. There was no thrum of life in return, not that he had really expected one. The wide, glazed eyes were proof enough. "I'm sorry," he said gently. "He's gone."

Tears spilled from her eyes and she gasped, "No!"

"I'm sorry," Dean said again. "You can let him go now."

"I can't!"

"You can," he said gently. "I need to get you somewhere safe. There's a place and there's lots of other people that can help you."

He took her wrists and gently prized her hands away from the wound. She allowed him to do it and let him help her to her feet. He began to lead her toward the fort but suddenly his vision was blocked by a cloud of black smoke. It poured into the mouth of the woman. Dean started chanting the Latin exorcism so fast his words were a hiss, but it was too late. The demon's black eyes were fixed on him and she was reaching into her belt for the knife sheathed there.

Dean did the only thing he could; he ran. He saw Castiel on the opposite side of the field and he ran towards him, getting to his side before he realized the demon wasn't following him. She was standing where Dean had left her, the drawn knife held at her side, head tilted to the side. She needed to be exorcised. Dean's eyes roved the field looking for Sam, but his tall, longhaired form was nowhere in sight. He had been there. Each time Dean had been on the field he had checked on Sam and he'd seen him working every time. Where had he gone now?

"Where is Sam?" he asked Castiel intensely.

"What? Oh." Castiel's eyes roved the field and then settled on the fort. "Come with me." He gave Dean no choice in the matter, though Dean would never have protested. He gripped Dean's wrist and dragged him along until they were both sprinting. They weren't the only ones running. The possessed woman Dean had helped before was running at the fort from one direction while a middle-aged man ran from the other. Dean tried to run faster, his lungs burning, but the demons made it through the stone arch before him.

They were just at the arch when Dean heard a groan of pain that was unmistakably Sam and the meaty sound of something heavy hitting the floor.

"Sam!"

Dean saw the tail of the man's uniform coat whipping through a door and then it slammed shut in Dean's face. He shoved at it with his shoulder, but it didn't budge. Castiel pushed him aside and, using one hand, shoved it open. They burst into the room in time to see the woman Dean had tried to help throwing back her head and the black smoke pouring out of her as Sam lowered his fisting and shaking hand.

There were people in the room. The woman Sam had exorcised and three men. Two of the men had the stunned look of civilians, but the third, a man in a black suit and glasses, didn't look like a civilian. He looked calm and confident in the situation. Dean would have bet the Impala that he was a demon.

It was Sam that held Dean's gaze though. Dean was shocked by the sight of his brother. He looked awful. He had one hand on the wall, as if holding himself up against it, and though he had wiped it away, there was a smear of blood across his upper lip. His eyes were darkly shadowed and his skin pale. Dean had known this was a risk, letting him exorcise, but he hadn't expected it to have taken this high a toll on him.

"Sammy," Dean breathed.

"It's War, Dean," Sam groaned. "War!"

"Sure as hell is," the man said, "and Sammy here is my captain."

Sam scowled at him. "I'm nothing to you."

The man shook his head indulgently. "The time for games is over, Sam. Let's show your brother what he's dealing with."

Sam looked at him, lips parted with confusion and shallow breaths, and Dean looked back, and then something awful happened. Sam's eyes turned demon black. Dean staggered back and Castiel stepped forward, his blade dropping into his hand.

"Sammy, no," Dean moaned as Castiel hissed, "Demon!"

Sam blinked black eyes and then he laughed. "Is that all you've got?" he asked.

The man chortled, leaning over the table with his hands clasped on the edge. "Hear how he speaks to you, Castiel. Teach him a little respect."

Dean thought Castiel just might do it. He looked like a man determined as he stepped toward Sam.

"Whatever you're seeing, Cas, it's not real," Sam said intensely. "It's the ring. You have to get the ring off him."

Castiel hesitated, momentarily unsure, and Dean acted. He yanked Castiel's sword out of his hand and brought it swishing down on the man's wrist. The man screamed out in pain as blood spurted from his wrist and his hand dropped to the floor.

Dean barely paid him a moment's attention. He was crossing the room to his brother whose eyes were no longer black. "Are you okay?" he asked.

Sam nodded and slumped against the wall. "I'm fine." His body immediately betrayed his words as he slid slowly down the wall.

"Sam!" Dean shouted, dropping down beside him.

"It's okay, Dean," Castiel said, kneeling beside him. "He's not hurt."

"Just tired," Sam said weakly.

"Okay, Sammy," Dean said gently. "You sleep. We'll take care of you. We'll get you home."

He wasn't sure how much Sam heard as he was already asleep with his head tilted to the side.

* * *

Ellen and Dean were sitting on the edge of Dean's bed, watching the steady rise of Sam's back as he breathed the deep breaths of sleep. Castiel had gotten them back to The Roadhouse, and Sam had managed to drag himself to almost consciousness to reassure Ellen that he was okay before collapsing on the bed and falling into a dead sleep. He would probably be pissed if he knew they were watching him, but Dean didn't want to leave him just yet.

He had just finished telling Ellen the story of what had happened, leaving nothing out but the mention of the blood that was no longer in Sam to fuel him. Ellen had never known about the blood in the first place, so she didn't need to know Sam no longer seemed to require it. That was a secret kept between Castiel, Dean and Sam himself. Sam might find it in himself to tell Ellen and the others one day, but not yet. It was still too raw for him, for them all.

When they had walked out of the fort, demons had been disappearing to all points of the compass. Dean had gone to Garth to explain it was over and to have him deal with the civilians involved while Castiel watched over Sam. As Dean had walked back to them, he had looked at the many bodies in the field and wondered what would happen to their formerly possessed killers.

"So this War tried to make you _think_ Sam was a demon," Ellen asked.

"Yes."

"How did you know he wasn't? The tattoo?"

"No," Dean said. "That could have been broken easily enough. It was just Sam. I know my brother too well now to believe it could have been anything but him."

"That could have gone down a whole different way," she said. "That was a lot to place on trust.

"I know. It didn't though. Sam's okay. We're all okay."

She leaned to the side and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Thank you, Dean."

"For what?"

"For believing in my boy. I don't think he could have survived it if you had believed War instead."

Dean thought so, too. Sam had been through so much; they all had. Dean didn't think he had it in him to get though another disappointment like that.

"I better get back to the bar," she said regretfully.

"Okay. I'll stay with him."

Ellen got to her feet and left the room quietly, easing the door shut behind her.

Though the sound was soft, it broke into Sam's sleep, and he turned over. "Dean?" he asked, his voice sleep fogged.

"I'm here," Dean said, moving to stand beside him and patting his shoulder. "Not going anywhere."

Sam's breaths settled into sleep again and Dean sat. He would stay there until Sam woke, because that was what he needed. Dean didn't want him to wake alone.

* * *

 **So… This was one of the most fun chapters to write. I wanted to make this apocalypse** _ **really**_ **apocalyptic and this seemed like a good place to start.**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	7. Chapter 7

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy for working your beta magic on this chapter for me. Thanks also to Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2 for all your help.**

 **You guys are awesome. The reviews and PMs make this story worth all the work. Don't hesitate to get in touch.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Seven**_

Sam was bent over, painting in the sigils to complete the devil's trap in front of Sonny's front door, when he felt someone come to stand behind him. He straightened and turned to find the kid who had a low opinion of Dean watching him.

"Why are you painting satanic symbols in front of the doors?" the kid asked.

Sam sighed. "Listen, kid…"

"Mitch," he corrected. "And not a kid."

"Okay, Mitch, there are some things in the world you don't want to know about. Why I am painting satanic symbols is one of them."

Mitch's eyes bugged for a moment before he took control of himself again. "So they _are_ satanic?"

Sam laughed softly and shook his head. "No. They're for protection. See, Sonny has discovered Feng Shui and he wants to keep out bad energy. These symbols trap it and keep it out of the building. It's actually pretty cool when you think about it."

Mitch crossed his arms over his chest and gave Sam a skeptical look. "Sonny doesn't seem like the Feng Shui type to me."

"You'd be surprised. Dean doesn't seem like the Disney type either, but he still knows what Sleeping Beauty's Castle looks like."

"For real?"

"For real."

Mitch laughed, throwing back his head and filling the air with the free sound.

There were footsteps then and Sonny appeared around the door. He looked at Mitch laughing it to bust for a moment, smiling slightly, and then he said, "What's so funny?"

Mitch choked himself to calm and shook his head. "Nothing, Sonny." He looked at Sam, lips twitching.

"Then maybe it's time to get to your chores. I just sent out the others for veggies. How about you join them?"

Mitch nodded. "On it."

He raised a hand in farewell to them both and ambled away, Sam watched him go and then waited, sure Sonny was going to say something and resisting the urge to get away from the conversation by finishing the trap.

There was silence for a moment and then Sonny said, "I haven't heard Mitch laughing like that for a while. What did you say?"

"Just shared an embarrassing Dean fact."

"That'll do it." He smiled slightly. "You're good at that, you know?"

Sam glanced down at the unfinished sigil. "At painting?"

"No," Sonny said with a smile. "Making people happy."

Sam snorted. "Yeah, I'm a riot."

Sonny didn't know a thing about him. Sure, he'd made the kid laugh, but that was because he had made fun of Dean, and it was to cover his slip about the devil's trap. Though Mitch had gone away laughing, the question about the trap was going to come back to him and Sam doubted he'd believed the story Sam had given him. He had probably given the kid a few sleepless nights. He had screwed up again.

Sonny leaned against the wall beside Sam and crossed his arms over his chest. "Dean's happy."

"He's really not," Sam argued. "Believe me, there is nothing in the world for him to be happy about right now."

"And yet he is anyway."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "You think?"

"I _know_. I met Dean when he was sixteen. I've seen a lot of big moments in his life. I've seen him find his first love, I've seen him graduate high school and college. I've seen him start a job he worked his ass off for years to get. I saw all that and I saw the sadness in his eyes despite the huge smile on his face."

Sam thought he knew his brother well, but he had never seen any sadness in his eyes outside what you'd expect when a hunt went sour or Sam screwed up. He'd certainly not seen it combined with a smile. How could he have missed what Sonny apparently saw so clearly?

"You don't see it," Sonny stated, taking in Sam's puzzled expression.

Sam shook his head.

"That makes sense. You're one that made it go away."

Sam could think of nothing to say in return. He just looked down at the half-finished devil's trap and hoped Sonny would leave him to finish it. Unfortunately, Sonny didn't seem inclined to go yet.

"After your father died, Dean thought you had, too," he said.

"He told me," Sam said quietly.

"Yeah, I bet he didn't tell you what it did to him though, did he?"

Sam dragged his eyes up to meet the older man's gaze. "Not really."

Sonny nodded thoughtfully. "He showed up here half out of his mind with grief. He was so consumed by it that he wasn't even Dean. Everything he tried to do linked back to you, especially his work. Like it or not, you stayed a kid to Dean till the day he saw you again. So he would be talking with the kids he worked with, and suddenly they'd be you. It screwed him over. So he came here. He was so messed up, he actually felt guilty. It didn't matter that he had no chance since he hadn't seen you for years; he thought he should have protected you. There was nothing I could say to change it. He was convinced."

"Yeah," Sam said slowly. "I get that. Dean has a thing with misplaced guilt."

"And you don't?" Sonny asked.

Sam shrugged. "Mine isn't misplaced."

Sonny's mouth pressed into a thin line and then he shook his head, as if shaking something off. "He left me after a few weeks, and I didn't see him again for a while. I spoke to him in-between times. He called when he found you, after that disastrous first meeting, and then again after he saw you parked outside his house. He kept calling, and he seemed happier each time. Then he got himself hurt and he came to me, and I saw it was finally gone. That sadness in his eyes had vanished, leaving him as happy as I always knew he could be."

Sam thought back to how it had been those days after Dean was possessed. How they were just tentatively forging a relationship again, how scared Sam had been to let himself open up to Dean in case he lost him again. Things were still pretty messed up then. Had their tentative bond been enough to make Dean happy again? It must have been. Sam could think of no reason Sonny would lie to him.

Uncomfortable, Sam bent and finished the last sigils that made the devil's trap, trying to make the action an end to their conversation, but Sonny didn't take the hint. "Dean says this is down to you," he said.

Sam stiffened. "He said that?" Obviously it _was_ down to Sam, but it was very unlike Dean to point it out.

"Yeah. Said you had the idea to come up and lay down all these symbols and stuff."

"Oh." He felt stupid. Dean had been talking about Sam's idea to check in and set Sonny up with some protection. That _had_ been his idea. He wanted Sonny and his kids as safe as he could make them. "Yeah. There's some big stuff happening and we need to do what we can to protect ourselves. Actually, come with me."

He set down his paint can then stood and opened the door. Stepping carefully around the trap that was still drying, he led Sonny out to the Impala. He popped the trunk. Sonny looked confused when he saw the apparently empty space, but then his eyes widened as Sam lifted the false bottom and revealed the weapons trove.

"Wow."

Sam nodded. "You won't need all this—this is for hunting. For protection you'll need…" He sorted through the stash of weapons, looking for a silver flask he remembered John buying and discarding as being too girly. It would work fine for what Sonny needed it for though. He found it under a machete and pulled it out triumphantly. "Holy water. It repels demons. It's full, but I'll teach you the Latin to bless more. You'll need a rosary, too. Basically, if something comes at you with black eyes, you give them a face full of this. Keep it on you at all times."

"Okay, holy water. What else?" Sonny asked.

"Salt and iron. Demons don't like either. They can't cross a salt line."

So if demons come knocking…"

"You get yourself and the kids behind salt and call us," Sam said seriously. "We've got Castiel around now, so we can get here in a hurry if we need to. Whatever you do, you don't try to fight them."

Sonny nodded, his expression solemn. "That's what you think will come for us then?"

" _If_ anything comes at all, we think it'll be a demon," Sam said. "And it's very unlikely anything even will. We're just covering all our bases."

"Okay. Thank you, Sam. I appreciate you doing this for us."

"You're Dean's family," Sam said, explanation and fact. They were Dean's family, and though Sam hated the necessity of their presence in Dean's life—if John hadn't left him, the relationship would never have formed—he was glad Dean had people who cared about him outside of their small Roadhouse family. He deserved that.

Sonny was staring into the trunk at the wealth of weapons, his brow furrowed. "This all yours or has this arsenal always been there?" Sonny asked.

"I've added to it," Sam said, "but it's always been like that, yeah. Like I said, it's for hunting."

Sonny shook his head. "Neither of you had even a chance at normal growing up, did you?"

Sam shrugged. "I had some form of normal when I was a kid. I never knew what was really in the world until I was eight. Dean and Dad tried to protect me from it." He didn't know why he was doing this, talking with Sonny like it was normal for them. He didn't even talk to Ellen about these things. There was something about the man though; as little as Sam liked it, he was important and he owed him for what he had done for Dean. Given what Sam had done to the world, he felt he owed every single person something that he didn't want to give.

"Sounds like Dean," Sonny said fondly. "He was always so good with the kids."

"I know," Sam said seriously. "And if I could make him go back to them, to his kids, I would do it in a heartbeat."

"Maybe one day. Life is long. Maybe the two of you can deal with whatever it is that has you here painting strange patterns and giving me holy water, and then you can both have a little normal."

"Yeah, maybe," Sam said. That ship had sailed for him a long time ago, but Dean still had a chance. That would be Sam's goal. They would deal with Lucifer. Find a way to end him, and then Dean would be free to choose without guilt. Save the world, free his brother. Sam's new mission.

* * *

They went from Sonny's place to Bobby's. The plan was to bulk up on as much knowledge on the horsemen as possible and Bobby had the hunting world's best library.

Sam would have hated the horsemen simply because of what they were, but Fort Wilcox had given both him and Dean a passionate abhorrence for them. Dean had been the one dealing with the traumatized dispossessed and Sam had been the one looking into the black eyes of the demonic welcoming party. And that had just been War. What would Lucifer do to welcome _Death_? He didn't know, but he knew he had to do everything he could to maybe find out.

"Sam, come eat," Dean said, his tone indicating it wasn't the first time he'd said the words.

Sam looked up. Bobby and Dean were sitting at the table in the kitchen with bowls of stew in front of them and a basket of bread in the middle beside a six-pack of beer. There was a third place set and it was that Dean was gesturing to. Sam had been so involved in what he was reading that he hadn't even noticed that Dean wasn't sitting beside him on the couch anymore. It wasn't the first time it had happened recently, him losing track of what was happening around him, and it was a little worrying. Sam was usually hyperaware of his surroundings. It bothered him that it had changed.

"Sam," Dean prompted.

Sam slid a piece of paper into the book he had been reading to mark his place and set it down on the table then pushed himself to his feet.

He felt the eyes of Dean and Bobby on him as he took his seat and picked up his spoon. "Thanks, Bobby," he murmured.

"Welcome," Bobby said gruffly. "Now get it down your neck."

They ate in companionable silence for a while and then Bobby and Dean fell into conversation about goings on at The Roadhouse. Bobby knew almost all of the hunters Sam and Dean did, and they talked about how they were all coming together for the apocalypse. No one knew Sam's part in it; the story was that Lilith had broken the last seal herself while Sam and Dean tried to stop her. Sam wasn't sure the secret would hold forever; it would only take a slip of the tongue from one person and Sam would be battling every hunter out there coming for his head.

He worried about that. He wasn't scared for himself as much as he was for Dean. If he was caught in the crossfire… Well, it seemed that neither of them would stay dead if they were killed, but that didn't mean Sam wanted Dean to test that theory again. In addition, death wasn't necessarily the worst thing for either of them, though Sam sometimes wondered whether it would be the worst thing if he was outed and punished by his fellow hunters. It wasn't that he was suicidal or wanted to be hurt; it was that he needed to have some consequences personally for what he had done. It might even ease the crushing guilt he felt, make it easier to look Dean and the other people he loved in the eye again.

* * *

It was the early hours of the morning and Sam couldn't sleep. He spent hours tossing and turning before he finally gave in and got out of bed. Dean stirred and opened bleary eyes. "Sam?"

"Bathroom," Sam lied.

"Kay." Dean rolled over and went back to sleep.

He grabbed a hoodie from his duffel and pulled it on. It had to be getting close to dawn now, and he thought he could watch the sunrise. He crept out of the room, along the hall and down the stairs, but came to a halt outside the library door. There was light creeping under the closed door and soft sounds of movement inside. He hesitated and then went in.

Bobby was sitting on his couch, a mug of coffee in hand and a book open on his lap. He looked up at Sam and there was no surprise in his face. "Can't sleep?" he asked.

Sam shook his head. "You either?"

"Nope. End of the world doesn't lend itself to restful a night's sleep. Dean still out?"

Sam nodded. "Didn't want to disturb him, so I thought I'd come down for a while."

"Pull up a seat."

"Actually, I think I'll just get some air."

Bobby pushed himself to his feet. "Good idea."

Sam bit back a sigh. He had wanted a little time alone to think. He couldn't do that with Bobby in his ear. Though perhaps that was for the best after all. He wasn't going to be thinking happy thoughts; it might be a relief to have a distraction from them.

Bobby surprised him though. When they got out, he took a seat beside Sam on the steps and stared out over the cars in silence.

The sky gradually lightened and Sam waited for the sun. It came in a rush of color, sweeping away the darkness of the sky.

As if it was permission for them to break their silence, Bobby said, "You know, you never did sleep well here when you were a kid."

Sam turned to look at him. "I didn't?" He remembered Bobby's house as a place of happiness and excitement, not insomnia.

"No. It used to take me forever to settle you down. You'd be so damn excited about whatever it was we were doing the next day that I'd spend half the evening sending you back to bed. You used to come downstairs chattering about an idea you'd had or something you wanted to do. It drove me mad."

"Sorry."

Bobby chuckled. "Don't apologize for being a kid, Sam"

"Sorry," Sam said again and they both laughed softly.

"You been saying that word a lot lately, haven't you," Bobby said.

"Not nearly enough. Though it's not like it's made a damn bit of difference."

"It doesn't even make you feel a little better?"

Sam shook his head. "It's just a word at the end of the day. Besides, there are some things that just can't be apologized away or forgiven. Like destroying the world."

Bobby sighed heavily. "You made a mistake, Sam. You thought you were saving us. We all did. Not a single one of us would have done anything different had we been in your position. You did nothing wrong."

Sam laughed hard. His stomach cramped and tears trickled down his cheeks, and still he laughed. He could feel Bobby's concerned gaze on him, but still he laughed. He wasn't sure of the moment the laughter became something else, something darker and more open, but as soon as he realized it, he forced himself to calm down. He was not going to cry there.

"What happened, Sam?" Bobby asked. "What aren't you boys telling us?"

Sam closed his eyes. Perhaps it would help. Perhaps it wouldn't. Bobby deserved the truth anyway, and Sam deserved his anger. Maybe when Bobby threw a punch he might feel a little better.

"Blood," he said. "What we're hiding is the blood."

"What about blood?"

Sam turned and looked him in the eye, seeing the disgust as the words left him. "I drank it."

"You did what?"

"Demon blood. I drank it." Sam drew a breath and rushed on. "When I was a baby, the night my mom died, Yellow-Eyes came into my nursery and bled into my mouth. He infected me with his blood. That's why I had visions and could do what I did to the demons. It was all because of the blood. And then, when Ruby was hanging around, I drank it again. It powered me up. Without it I could barely exorcise back then, but with it I could drag the demons out of their meat suits and send them back to the pit. Later, I could torture and kill them. It was all because of the blood."

Bobby looked horrified. "What the hell made you do that?"

"The deal. In the year before Dean went to Hell, I did everything I could to kick-start my powers. I thought if I could kill her, the deal would be off. It didn't work, you know that, but I didn't stop. When Dean was gone, I kept going with the blood, trying to make myself strong enough, dark enough to get him back. Then, when he came back, I stopped, but then…"—he shrugged—"Lilith kicked the seals into gear and I knew I had to end her. Once again, I went on the blood, and you know most of the rest. I killed Lilith and started the apocalypse."

Bobby stared at him expressionlessly. Sam squirmed. He waited for the punch, the blow that might even send him into merciful unconsciousness for a while.

"Why did you tell me this?" Bobby asked.

"I figure you deserve to know."

Bobby shook his head. "No. There's more to it than that, isn't there?"

Sam ducked his head. "I thought maybe you'd be the one to give me what I need."

"What do you need, Sam?"

"Blame. Dean and Cas know, but they won't give me what I need. Dean doesn't forgive, that's impossible, but he doesn't blame. He excuses what I did. Cas just doesn't talk about it. I need someone that will…"

"Punish you?"

"Yes," Sam said quietly.

"Then I'm not the one you need," Bobby said. "I hate what you did. I think it's the stupidest thing I ever heard, but you didn't do it for any reason other than to help others. You were trying to save Dean, and I'm grateful for that, and then you were trying to save the world."

"I killed a woman," Sam said quickly. "Before Lilith, to get the blood to power me, I had to drain a demon and drink it. The woman didn't stand a chance."

Bobby paled for a moment and then nodded. "That makes sense."

"Dammit!" Sam lurched to his feet and walked away. "What the hell! Why does everyone do this? Why are you all just wiping the slate? I have ended the world!"

"Not yet," Bobby said. "It's still going."

"Semantics," Sam spat.

"No. Living and ending are two different things, Sam. I can't give you what you want. I'm not the man you need. I can't punish you."

"Why not?" Sam asked dolefully.

"Because…" He smiled slightly. "Because, deep down, you're still the boy that wouldn't go to sleep. I'm sorry."

Sam turned and walked away toward the junk cars, tears welling in his eyes. He had once again been denied what he needed more than anything because someone else was stupid enough to care about him. He would walk away now, and come back when he was calm, and they would never speak of this conversation again. And he would search on to find someone who would punish him for what he had done; perhaps he'd even find someone that could hate him more than he hated himself.

* * *

 **So… I have been trying to rebuild a relationship between Sam and Bobby since Brothers In Arms and Sam resisted every step of the way. He's not the same man he once was now, though, and the he's cooperating a little more.**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	8. Chapter 8

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy for working your beta magic on this for me. Thanks also SandraEngstrom2 and Gredelina1 for your help and support.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Eight**_

Sam knew even before his eyes were all the way open that he was the only one in the room by the absence of Dean's soft breaths as he slept. That was unusual. Sam usually woke first, and when he didn't, he was woken by Dean's movements around the room. He must have been more tired than he realized to sleep through it, which was strange as he hadn't been sleeping well lately.

He rolled over and swung his legs around to the edge of the bed, then stood and stuffed his feet into his boots. He could hear movement in the kitchen, and he directed his path there, thinking that finding Dean in search of coffee was the most likely outcome. He pushed open the door and saw Ellen at the counter, but there was no sign of Dean.

"Hey, sweetie," she said when she caught sight of him. "Coffee?"

Sam nodded vaguely and took the mug she held out to him. He took a sip, feeling it burn some of the chill from him, and asked, "Where's Dean?"

"I've got to go to by the store," she said, her attention on pouring herself a mug of coffee instead of Sam. "We need pretzels and—" She frowned. "Who?"

"Dean," he said. "Have you seen him?"

"Who's Dean?" She looked politely confused.

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Dean. My brother."

Deep furrows creased her forehead. "Are you feeling okay?"

"No," Sam said honestly. "I'm confused as all hell. Where is my brother?"

"Sam, honey, you don't have a brother." Ellen's confused look was morphing into a worried one.

Sam scowled at her. "Not even a little funny, Ellen."

"I'm not trying to be funny," she said. "And I don't understand why you are. "

"Dean," Sam said emphatically. "Dean Winchester. My brother."

She shook her head and turned away. "I don't know what the joke is, Sam. You don't have a brother. You have a sister, Jo."

"No," Sam said firmly. "I have Dean. I found him. Or he found me. We were together _last night_. We were here."

"Sam, last night you came home alone." There was no trace of humor in her. She wasn't teasing, not that he thought she would ever joke about something like this with him.

Since shortly after Dean had moved into The Roadhouse, signs of his presence had appeared. Not just in the bedroom, but in the kitchen, too. There was a picture of him and Jo on the pin board. His handwriting was on notes under magnets on the fridge door. His jacket had been on the back of a chair when they'd gone to bed the night before. Sam looked for those things for proof now that he wasn't losing his mind.

They weren't there. There were photos and notes, but none of them were of or from Dean. Sam ran into bar. There was usually a framed shot of him and Dean taken without their notice that Ellen had behind the bar counter. The frame was there, but the photograph was of Sam alone sitting on the hood of the Impala, facing away from the camera and looking off into the distance.

He picked it up and stared at it, as if the image would change if he looked hard enough. It didn't. The picture remained resolutely Sam. Alone.

"Sam, are you okay" Ellen asked behind him.

Sam turned. "No, I'm not."

"Come sit down and talk to me."

He allowed himself to be led to a table and guided into a chair. He felt like he was on autopilot. The shock was so real and intense. Dean was gone. Where? And why didn't Ellen know who he was? If it was someone else, anyone else, he would have suspected a joke or trick, but Ellen would never do that to him. Other people would though. The demons would think it was a real joke to screw with him like this.

He looked at Ellen and spoke clearly. "Christo!"

She blinked brown eyes, looking stunned. "I'm not a demon." Her voice softened. "Honey, what's going on?""

"Last night, I went to sleep with Dean Winchester in the other bed. This morning, I woke up and he's gone."

"Sam, there is no Dean Winchester," she said firmly.

"There is!" Sam slapped a hand down on the table.

She started at the loud sound and he shook his head apologetically.

"Something's happened," he said. "I don't know what or why, but you've forgotten Dean."

"There was _never_ a Dean," she said emphatically.

Sam lurched to his feet. The chair he was on clattered to the floor. "There was!"

There was no belief in her face, only concern. She didn't believe him—couldn't maybe. The Ellen he knew would have had room for a little doubt in her own beliefs in the face of his certainty. She wouldn't just rule it out.

He didn't understand what was happening. The list of possibilities flew through his mind: a Djinn? No. He hadn't been on a regular hunt since the sky started falling on them. He would remember that. And it wasn't a Djinn's MO to give someone a nightmare. They were all about delivering on wishes. Sam would never wish _this_. A nervous breakdown? Possible. He'd certainly been under enough strain lately, but it was a strange form to take. A spell?" That wasn't out of the realm of possibility. He had pissed off enough people over the course of his life that a witch coming down on him wasn't a stretch.

He needed help.

* * *

He made the journey to Sioux Falls on autopilot, unaware of the turns or change of gears. It wasn't until he was pulling onto Bobby's property that he snapped back to himself, inwardly wondering how the hell he'd made it this far without driving the Impala into the guardrail.

He pulled the car to a halt beside Bobby's Chevelle and climbed out. Close to what he hoped would be help, he felt a thrill of nerves. He saw a curtain twitch as he made for the door, and he smiled at the sign of life. It would have been a pain in the ass to make it to Bobby's only to find the man on a liquor run.

He scaled the steps and knocked. There was a pause before the door opened, as if Bobby was deciding whether or not to acknowledge the summons. Sam learned quickly that wasn't it. Bobby was arming himself. The barrel of a sawn-off shotgun appeared first and then Bobby peered out.

"Bobby! What the hell? It's me, Sam."

"I can see that," Bobby said in a voice full of ill-suppressed anger.

"Then why are you pointing a gun at me?"

Bobby raised an eyebrow. "One too many knocks to that thick skull of yours, Winchester? I made a promise, and you used to know I always kept my word."

"Okay," Sam said slowly. "What exactly did you promise?"

"That the next time I saw you or your daddy, I'd fill your asses with buckshot. So, I have to ask myself, why the hell you'd come back?"

"I need help," Sam said.

Bobby laughed shortly and harshly. "I'll say."

"Dean's gone," Sam said.

"And who the hell is Dean?"

It wasn't that Sam hadn't expected the question, but hearing it spoken still made a twist of ice imbed in his chest and twist.

"My brother," Sam said. "And your son. Basically anyway. You're like a father to him—have been for years."

"In what ass-backwards world is that true?" Bobby asked with a scowl.

"The _real_ world. Look, I don't have time to go into it all with you, but I need your help. Someone or something has wiped Dean from Ellen's memory and apparently yours, too. There's no sign of him at The Roadhouse."

Bobby shook his head looking amused. "Have you considered the possibility that you're crazy? I mean, the rest of us have known it for a while, but you always were slow on the uptake. The fact you're here adds credence to the theory, and that you're spouting crap about me having a son, when I swore I would _never_ …"

"And yet you do," Sam said angrily. "And you couldn't ask for better. He's a hero."

"Like you and your daddy, right?"

"I'm no hero," Sam said shortly.

"Agreed. Now we've established that, let's test and see if you're suicidal."

"I just need a little help. There has to be something else that can do this other than a djinn."

Bobby cocked his gun. "I'm going to give you until one to get off my property before I pull the trigger."

"Bobby, please," Sam pleaded.

"Five… Four… Three…"

Sam saw the truth of the threat in Bobby's eyes and he turned tail and ran for the car. It felt wrong to flee, but he was certain Bobby really would pull the trigger, and there was no guarantee the angels would swoop in to save him in this new, strange world.

Sam was halfway out of the arch that marked the edge of Bobby's property when the answer came to him with all the jolt of an electric shock. The damn angels.

They had dumped Dean in that future world in which Sam had said yes to Lucifer—a false world because Sam would never, _never,_ say yes. He didn't know what the message behind this excursion was, but he was sure he was right. This was down to those dicks.

* * *

Sam pulled the car over in an almost empty parking lot on the other side of town and climbed out. He took a moment took look around, and then, finding himself alone, he raised his eyes heavenward and said, "Castiel. I need to talk. I am on the corner of Park and Twelfth, Sioux Falls." He waited a moment, and then when there was no response, he said, "Please, Cas."

There was a rustling sound and then Castiel's dry and familiar voice spoke behind him. "Who are you?"

Sam spun on his heel. He had known there was a chance he wouldn't get the angel he knew, the one that was on his side. He'd thought that even if Castiel wasn't _his_ Cas, he would know who Sam was, though. He was the vessel of Lucifer after all. "Cas, it's me, Sam."

"My name is Castiel."

"Okay, sure," Sam said. "Castiel, I need help. Some of your dick buddies have set me up. Neither Bobby nor Ellen know who Dean is. I can't find any sign of him anywhere."

"How do you even know who I am?"

"Because I _know_ you!" Sam said. "And you know me. I've known you a year now. You helped us. Dammit, Cas, you Fell for us."

"I have not Fallen. I would never Fall." He sounded angry.

"Yeah, I didn't think so either. You had a stick up your ass the size of a Buick, but you did it. Now, I need you to help me. I'm pretty sure some of your buddies have zapped me into screwy-world and I need out. I have to get to Dean." He had to get him back.

"I do not know who you are. I do not know how you even know about angels. But I can assure you we have nothing to do with whatever psychotic break you seem to be experiencing."

"Psychotic break!" Sam glared at him.

"I believe that is the term, yes. You need a doctor, not an angel."

"You dick! There is an apocalypse raging, and I need to be there with Dean and you to stop it. I can't do shit stuck here, so tell whichever of your dick brothers did this to me that I am done, I get the message or whatever. Bounce me back to the real world so I can fight!"

Castiel was frowning at him. "You are not a demon," he stated. "You are not an angel."

"No shit."

"So how do you know about the apocalypse?"

"Because I started it!" Sam shouted. "I sent Dean to Hell and he broke the first seal. I killed Lilith and broke the last. Now, Lucifer is out and trying to get my consent to run around in my skin."

Castiel looked amused. "I do not know how you know about these things, but I can reassure you of this, the apocalypse is not raging. Lilith _is_ dead, but it was at the hands of Raphael, not some human. And Lucifer is still trapped within his cage." His lips pressed into a thin line. "And even if he was free, he would not want anything from you. You see, his vessel must be from a specific bloodline, so of course you are not it."

Sam frowned. "Then who is?"

"That is not your concern. Now, I suggest you find yourself a competent doctor. Perhaps some medication, too."

"Cas, you asshole, listen to me," Sam started, but the angel was already gone, leaving Sam alone without answers or assistance.

He threw himself back into the car and bowed his head over the steering wheel. For a few minutes, he just sat, trying to come to terms with his disappointment, and then anger took over. What the hell was he supposed to do now? He couldn't stay in this Deanless world, but he didn't know how to get out of it.

He needed to think. He needed a drink. He needed Dean.

He pulled his wallet from his pocket and thumbed though the bills. He had enough to get himself good and loaded if he wanted, and he did want, but he knew he shouldn't. He was about to flip the wallet closed when he saw something in one of the compartments: the corner of a creased business card. He pulled it out and his eyes widened. It was Dean's card; the one Sam had carried to Cold Oak, Snake Creek, Maryland, and every stop along the way. It had been his talisman at first, and then later a reminder of what Dean had given up.

At The Roadhouse there had been no sign of Dean. Ellen, Bobby, even Castiel knew nothing about him. There was nothing in this world that made Sam think Dean was a part of it, other than this card.

Sam turned it over in his hand, seeing the neatly embossed number and name. That was when he noticed what was wrong. The card didn't have Dean Winchester's name on it; it read Dean Smith.

Without thought, Sam pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed in the number. It was his one, last, best hope. He lifted the phone to his ear and held his breath as it rang.

"Dean Smith," a familiar voice said.

"Dean," Sam breathed.

"Yes. Can I help you?"

"It's me, Sam."

There was a beat of silence and then Dean said almost apologetically, "I'm sorry, Sam who?"

Sam closed his eyes. "Doesn't matter."

"Wait," Dean said quickly. "I'm sorry—"

Sam ended the call and lowered the phone to his side, bowing his head over the steering wheel again. Not a Deanless world—just a brotherless one. Which was worse? He didn't know.

* * *

Sam pulled up on the opposite side of the road to the familiar house. It was almost exactly the same as it had been when Sam was last there, except there was an SUV in the driveway instead of Dean's bike. It was both a relief and a disappointment. Sam had come there to see, just see, his brother, but now that he was there, he thought maybe it was better to not see him after all. It would hurt. Because this couldn't end well. Sam knew that now.

He'd had the drive south from Sioux Falls to think, and he'd come to the realization that there was no good outcome here. Not for him anyway. Ideally, he would stay in this world forever, without an apocalypse. With Dean not dragged back into the hunting life. With Lilith dead and the angels staying on their clouds. Sam would lose things. He wouldn't have Bobby or Castiel in his life, and things with them were just starting to work, and he wouldn't have Dean, but they would have better. Didn't they deserve that? Life without him? He wanted them, but that was a selfish want.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the rumble of an engine coming along the road. He recognized it, as he had ridden that bike for months when Dean was gone. The bike pulled up behind the SUV on the drive and then the engine was cut.

Sam watched as Dean climbed off the bike and pulled off his helmet. He looked different, freer, happier. Even from a distance, Sam could see the tense set in his shoulders was gone. He made for the door, and then Sam's heart seemed to falter.

The front door flew open and a little boy came out onto the porch followed by a woman with long, dark hair and a sweet smile. Sam had no idea how old the child was, but he was small and looked unsteady on his feet, as if walking was something recent.

Sam unthinkingly opened the door, and then paused with one foot on the road and the other still in the car. He saw Dean sweep the little boy into his arms and say happily, "Sammy! Have you been a good boy for Mommy?" The little boy nuzzled into Dean's neck. With their faces close, Sam could see the resemblance. The woman leaned forward and she and Dean exchanged a chaste kiss and knowing smile.

Sam's heart seemed to falter before beating on heroically. He was stunned, sick with shock. Dean had a child! He hadn't come here to barge in on Dean's life again, but here was living proof that he couldn't. He was elated for his brother but agonized for himself. That child was Dean's family now. Sam was truly alone.

He closed his eyes, feeling wetness on his cheeks that he swiped away quickly. Without thought, he turned in his seat, getting into the car fully again, and started the engine. He pulled away from the sidewalk, and without looking back, he drove away from his brother.

* * *

He was sitting on the hood of the Impala, a bottle of whiskey in his hand and tears still on his face. No matter how many times he wiped them away, they came back again and again. He lifted the bottle by the neck and took a swig.

"Wow, Sam Winchester getting loaded alone," a voice said. "Who would have thought it?" Despite the easy words, the voice was harsh.

Sam looked up and saw the Trickster standing in front of him with his arms crossed over his chest.

"You!" Sam growled. "You did this?"

"Yes. I did this. Don't give me the wounded look. I owed you. You started the damn apocalypse!"

Sam nodded blearily. "Yeah, I did, but what the hell is the point of this, taking Dean away?"

"The point?" The Trickster snorted. "The point is this." He waved a hand up and down, gesturing at Sam. "You, drinking yourself into alcohol poisoning is the point. Your pain. Your loss. The fact you are one bad decision away from swallowing a bullet in hopes of making it stop is the point!"

Sam looked past him. "You could have just killed me."

"Yeah, I could have, but Lucifer would have just brought you right back again. What kind of punishment is that? No, I sat and thought long and hard before acting. I chose your perfect nightmare: your life, without Dean, again."

Sam shook his head slowly. "This isn't my perfect nightmare. Being without Dean, sure, yeah. I screwed things up royally when that happened before—but he was in _Hell_. This time I can take it because he's got a good life…" He swallowed hard. "He's got a family."

"Yeah, nice touch, right? But you're wrong. This _is_ your perfect nightmare, because you'll have to live it, knowing he's out there but unable to go to him. See, I'm not popping you back to crap town now that you've worked it out. You're going to _live_ this, Sam. I am going to watch you grow old and bitter, and I am going to enjoy every moment of it. I can make this last forever, and then, when you're old enough, ripe enough, desperate enough to do anything to get your brother back, I will…" He sighed. "Oh, really!"

There was a fluttering sound and Castiel appeared between them. "Sam," he said, obviously relieved, then the turned to the Trickster. His eyes widened. "You!"

"Hey, bro," The Trickster said.

Castiel didn't speak. He just stared at The Trickster, awed. It was obviously not the same Castiel Sam had spoken to earlier that day; it was Sam's Cas.

"Cas!" Sam said harshly, drawing the angel's stunned eyes to him. "Get me the hell out of here!"

"I don't think so," Gabriel said, snapping his fingers. There was no flash of light; Castiel wasn't yanked away as he was when banished. One moment he was there, the next he was gone.

Sam's heart sank as his hope of rescue disappeared.

"Nope, no knight in shining trenchcoat for you, Sam," the Trickster said. "You are going to live this hell."

"Hell?" Sam snorted. "You have no idea. You think living a life without Dean is bad? It is. You think living a life without him while he lives the dream with a wife and kid and job he loves is bad? You know nothing about family."

"I know plenty."

"No, you don't. You're giving me a dream. Sure, it's going to suck at times, but just for me. Dean gets to live the life he deserves. That's worth it to me."

"Yeah," he said slowly. "Maybe it would be, _if_ Dean was going to live. This is my world. My power. These are my actors."

"You're saying Dean's not real?" Sam asked.

The Trickster grinned. "I'm saying that's for me to know and you to torment yourself guessing at. Is he enjoying the delicious pot roast the missus made, or is he worrying himself sick over the brother in The Roadhouse who just won't _wake up_?"

"Tell me, you bastard!" Sam demanded.

The Trickster laughed as he snapped his fingers and disappeared.

* * *

It was the fact that there was a chance, even the slimmest chance, that the Trickster was telling the truth when he said Dean had that other life, the real life with a real family, that kept Sam from going to him—at least openly. His life changed completely after that conversation with the Trickster. He purposely changed it.

He didn't hunt.

There was no point. The Trickster had said they were all actors, creations of his own, so when Sam read the news reports saying there were suspicious deaths or other hunters came to him for help, Sam passed them by. He wasn't wasting his time chasing imaginary monsters.

Ellen, the actor version at least, badgered him about it for the first month, worried that he was suffering some kind of nervous breakdown. It wasn't easy to ignore her questions and insistence that he spoke to her at first, but the longer it went on, the better Sam got at it. He had to remind himself daily that it wasn't _his_ Ellen that begged and pleaded for him to let her help.

He worked the bar because there was nothing else to do with his time. He served drinks to creations of the Trickster and drank himself, relieved that he could still feel the burn of alcohol despite the unreality of his situation.

He slept, he ate, he drank, he waited to be an old man so he could get back to the real world and Dean, though he had no guarantee that he would be allowed to return when the time was up. He sometimes wondered if the Trickster would just bounce him right back to the beginning again.

He had one comfort in this new world. His phone calls with Dean.

Once every couple weeks or so, he would call the number on the creased business card and listen to his brother talk. He never replied to Dean's questions or concerns, he just listened. At first Dean would just ask Sam his name, reassure him that he could help, that no problem was insurmountable—obviously convinced Sam's calls were from one of his kids. When that failed to help, Dean started to talk. The first time it happened Sam had managed to cling to his calm for the short duration of the call, and then as soon as he was off, he had sobbed.

"You don't feel like talking?" Dean had asked. "That's okay. I don't mind listening to myself a while…"

He had spoken about everything and nothing. The record he was listening to at the time, the fact he'd tried to cook a meal for his wife and burned it beyond recognition. As time passed and the calls continued, things became more personal. He would tell Sam about his son, the things he was doing and learning. He never called him by name, it was always 'my boy', for which Sam was grateful. He didn't think he could bear to hear his name come from Dean without it being him that he was addressing.

Sam had to marvel at him. Even if wasn't his absent brother he was unknowingly talking to, Dean would have been helping, making whoever it was see there was good out there and hope for the future. He was so good at what he did.

It went on for months, until the day Sam was working at the bar, clearing empty glasses from tables, and the Trickster walked in and tapped him on the shoulder. Sam turned, nodded, and picked up the glasses he'd stacked and carried them to the bar.

"Seriously?" the Trickster said. "You're not even going to throw a punch."

"What would be the point?"

"Satisfaction? For me, I mean. I would enjoying seeing you swing and miss."

"What do you want?" Sam asked tiredly.

"I'd like a cherry coke, please, barkeep."

Sam scowled at him. "I'm not playing performing monkey for you."

"Oh how wrong you are. You've been playing performing monkey for me for months now."

Sam shrugged. "And yet you're about fifty years early, so what do you want?"

The Trickster sighed and took a seat at what had been Sam and Dean's table in the real word. He looked pointedly from Sam to the opposite chair and crossed his arms over his chest. Sam sighed heavily and sat down.

"Better," the Trickster said. "Now, what I _want_ is to talk. See, I'm bored. This all stopped being fun for me about six months ago. Sure, the phone calls are cute, and I never get tired of seeing you cry, but waiting two weeks for entertainment each time is not it."

"I'm sorry," Sam said sardonically. "What would you like me to do?"

"Spice it up a little," he said hopefully, and then shook his head. "Nah. I gave up on that idea about the time you necked your first bottle of Four Roses. Truth is, this just isn't a punishment for you anymore, is it, Sam?"

"No," Sam said honestly.

"Where did I go wrong?" He sounded honestly curious.

"Dean. You gave him what I always wanted for him—a good life. Just because I couldn't be a part of it, doesn't make it any less good."

The Trickster rolled his eyes. "You ignorant ape. Dean hasn't got a good life. Dean has a catatonic brother that right now he is wringing his hands over. This Dean, the one with his own Sammy and wife, that's all me."

Sam closed his eyes. It wasn't like he hadn't known it was a possibility, but to hear it confirmed… it hurt.

"Are you telling me you left Dean with me a wreck all this time?" Sam ground out through his teeth.

"Don't be stupid. Lucifer might not be the smart one, but even he'd notice if his vessel was checked out for six months. He has ways of knowing these things."

"Then how long's it been?" Sam asked.

"Let me think. I took you on a Wednesday in July… that makes it…" He counted on his fingers. "About twelve hours."

Sam reeled back. Twelve hours! Months, _months_ of time had been crammed into half a day. He was grateful for it. Dean hadn't suffered long, but at the same time, it was a mind bend, and it was too long for him to have been gone. Dean, Ellen, they'd be going out of their minds.

Sam was angry. He lurched to his feet, leaned over the table and reached for the Trickster's throat. Before his fingers could curl around the narrow neck, he was spun and pinned against the wall by a hand around his own throat.

"No touching," the Trickster scolded. "It's unwelcome and rude. Especially when I am about to do you a solid."

"You are?" Sam rasped.

"I am. Like I said, this isn't a punishment anymore. And I realized something else; nothing I can come up with is as much of a punishment as what you were already doing to yourself."

Sam's vision blurred as he tried in vain to suck in a breath.

"Look at them, Sam. Look into the eyes of every person you meet and know what you have done to them. See their lives and know they're going to end soon because of you," he said as Sam's eyes slid closed. " _See_ what you did!"

There was a flash of light, Sam drew air into lungs that felt flattened and the most welcome voice in the world to him was saying, "Sam! Sammy!"

Arms wrapped around him and Sam leaned into the warm weight of his brother's embrace.

"Dean," he breathed, greeting and confirmation in one.

"Sammy. Thank God."

Sam closed his eyes, held his brother tighter, and started to cry.

* * *

An hour after Sam came back to himself, thirteen hours after Dean woke and found his brother unresponsive in the bed beside him, again, Dean looked over the table at his brother and took in his appearance. He was a little pale, his expression was dour and tired, but it was his eyes that gave away what he was really feeling. He was wrecked, even more so than he had been before.

"Six months?" Ellen said, stunned.

"Give or take," Sam said, taking a swig of his beer.

"That's crazy," Dean said. "How on earth did you cope?"

Sam huffed a laugh. "I didn't. I struggled through each day until the Trickster, Gabriel, whichever—"

"Gabriel," Castiel said confidently.

"—let me out," Sam finished.

"And I wasn't there?" Dean asked.

Sam shook his head. "That was the point, the punishment."

Dean understood. He could think of no worse punishment now than a world without Sam. He had felt that way since he found him again. That was what had driven him to that crossroads and that was what haunted his dreams.

When he'd woken to find Sam gone—that was the only word he could think of to describe Sam's blank stare and inability to respond—he had been out of his mind. When Castiel had mind-melded with him and come back saying whatever had happened to Sam was down to an archangel, Dean had despaired. Castiel had been powerless to bring him out. All they'd been able to do was wait for Sam to come back on his own. Twelve hours without Sam had felt like a lifetime. Six months would have destroyed him.

He looked at Sam. No, he hadn't coped.

Sam shrugged. "Back now anyway," he said bracingly, as if that made it all better.

"What are we going to do about Gabriel, though?" Ellen asked. "Another archangel on our tail is a helluva complication."

"Nothing," Sam said. "Like you said, he's an archangel. There's nothing we can do about him. He'll come back when he wants and we'll have to get through when he does."

"You think he'll come back?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded. "I'm sure. He's not done with me yet."

Dean shuddered at the certainty in his voice. Gabriel was coming back, and Sam didn't seem scared. He seemed resigned. What would the archangel do to them next time?

* * *

 **So… That was a lot of fun for me to write. How was it for you?**

 **Thank you for the reviews and support for the story so far. I love hearing what you think of the story and really appreciate constructive criticism.**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	9. Chapter 9

**This story would be nothing without Jenjoremy's fabulous beta skills. She makes little changes that make all the difference. SandraEngstrom2 and Gredelina1 help me hammer out the details of each chapter's outline and they give it the seal of approval when it's finished.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Nine**_

Chuck plodded down the stairs and into his living room. It was ten in the morning, and his head was pounding. It had been yet another night of twisted, disturbing dreams, and he felt as rested as if he hadn't bothered going to bed at all. This dream had possibly been harder to get through than the others combined, as it had made him realize there was worse to come for him that day, he just wasn't sure why. He flopped down into the chair at his desk and rubbed his sore eyes.

He grabbed the bottle of whiskey he kept beside the monitor and unscrewed the cap. Just a small one wouldn't hurt. It would maybe take the edge off of his headache even. He reached for a glass, knocking a sheaf of paper onto the floor in the process. The first line caught his eye as he bent to pick it up: _The morning after Sam came back to life, Dean found him in the bar, nursing a mug of coffee and gazing into its depths…_

Chuck sighed and poured himself a drink. He took a quick sip and started to read.

* * *

The morning after Sam came back to life, Dean found him in the bar, nursing a mug of coffee and gazing into its depths. It wasn't until Dean dropped into the chair beside his that he looked up and said, "Hey."

Dean definitely still felt a degree of anxiety regarding Sam's state of mind. He'd said he hadn't shot himself for any reason other than to stop Lucifer, and Dean believed that, but there was no denying he was still fragile.

Dean guessed Sam would have preferred to be left alone, but he needed to talk to him, and he thought that Sam trying to make up for what he had done would keep him there long enough for Dean to finish.

"Sam, we need to talk."

Sam closed his eyes and seemed to brace himself, and then he nodded and looked at Dean. "Sure, okay."

"Yesterday, when Zachariah shoved me ahead to 2014, I saw some things."

"Yeah," Sam said slowly, then frowned. "You mean there's more than you said?"

Dean could tell he was trying to work out what could be worse than what he'd been told already—him as Lucifer, Bobby dead.

"There was a man called Chuck, he…" Dean hesitated, unsure of how to explain Chuck. "He saw us."

Sam frowned. "Saw us what?"

"Living. He was a prophet, and his dreams were tuned into us. Apparently, it started around the time of Miner's Delight, and just snowballed. He sees everything, Sam. He knows what we're thinking."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "He can read our minds?"

"I guess. When I spoke to him he knew what I was thinking and what I was going to say before I did. We basically had a conversation with him responding to my thoughts because he'd already dreamed it." Dean took a breath, bracing himself for the real kicker. "Sam, he writes books about it. They, some of them at least, were published. I saw one. It was about Lilith, and my deal coming due."

"You're telling me he writes about our lives and people actually read it?" Sam asked incredulously.

"I guess some people must. He had a publisher. But then again, the publisher went bust, so it maybe not."

Sam shook his head, a smile dancing on his lips. "Wow, Zach is a bigger dumbass than I thought."

"Huh?"

"Showing Lucifer in me—okay, that's not impossible, but showing you a prophet that's tuned into our lives and writes books about it? That's an even bigger pile of crap than anything I could come up with. I'm surprised you didn't realize it was all made up there and then."

Dean shifted uncomfortably. "Sam, I had a look on the internet. These books exist. He published them under a penname—Carver Edlund—but they're real."

Sam shrugged. "So the angels did their homework. They created a couple fake webpages. Would have thought that was beyond their tech skills, but I guess humans can be made to do anything."

"I don't think so," Dean said doubtfully.

Sam clapped him on the shoulder. "It's all crap, Dean. There's no books, no writer, and sure as hell no readers. This is just more of Zachariah's manipulation. Don't worry about it, okay?" He stood and made for the door, laughing softly to himself as he muttered. "What the hell kinda writer is called Chuck."

* * *

Chuck dropped the pages down onto the desk and groaned.

He was right there with Sam in the denial stakes. Sam and Dean weren't real. They were creations of his mind that manifested in the form of dreams. That was it. No more. And the fact that he could sometimes find signs of them in the real world meant nothing. Except… something had happened in Maryland. And in Fort Wilcox.

Chuck rarely watched the news. He got enough Real World depression from his dreams, thanks. But after he dreamed of Lucifer rising, that bright, white light pouring out of the floor, he had switched it on. The Governor of Maryland was on screen, trying to reassure people that a small Ilchester convent was unlikely to be a target for terrorism. It was the convent Sam and Ruby had been in.

That had been a coincidence. It had to be, because there was no way Chuck Shurley was a prophet of the Lord. God didn't make washed up, alcoholic writers prophets.

Then the news had come through about the attacks in Texas. A reenactment group's water supply had been spiked with some kind of hallucinogenic drug that made some of them go crazy and kill.

That was a tragedy. Nothing to do with Chuck, though. Nope. Nothing.

At least that was what he told himself. The problem was his mind didn't seem to want to listen to him anymore. He had read the pages of Sam and Dean discussing his existence a few times, and though his goal was to comfort himself with Sam's absolute faith that he wasn't real, Chuck couldn't deny that _he_ himselfwas real.

The debate would have been null and void if not for the colt. He would have gone on with his life, writing, drinking, and dreaming, if not for the fact that his dreams were occupied with the Winchesters trying to find the colt. The colt he knew the location of. The colt that could—if his dreams were in fact not the result of whiskey and bad living—save the world maybe.

And that, he guessed, was why he had dreamed of himself going to see Sam and Dean.

* * *

There were many layers to his brother, Dean knew, and some of them were darker than he would like. It wasn't Sam's fault. The life he'd led made him that way. Still, there was a certain level of discomfort to be felt when watching Sam questioning a demon for clues of the colt's location; though questioning wasn't really the word, it was torture that was happening in Bobby's basement.

Dean knew he had gone down that path before, when he had been in Hell and Sam had been attempting to make himself the Boy King to free him. Sam hadn't pulled any punches when he'd told him about it, but seeing it was something different. Sam was cold, dark, and determined. Dean told himself it was one demon's pain against the world, but it still worried him. Not the least of his worries was the fact that Sam wasn't torturing with weapons. He was using his powers. When he explained it to Dean, it sounded so reasonable—"If I use the knife, I'm hurting the meat suit, too. I can do this and save the human at the same time." That was true, sensible even, but when Sam started to lag and Dean had to beg him to stop and rest, to wipe away the blood and take something for the headache—he rarely won that argument—Dean wished there was another way.

And they were getting nowhere. The demons either didn't know anything or they just weren't talking. The seemingly endless parade of black eyes that Castiel delivered to them and Sam exorcised was useless. Sam didn't stop though. He was sure there would be one eventually that knew.

"Tell me what she did with the colt," Sam asked in a cold voice, void of any emotion.

"I don't know!" the demon shouted. "I never even met her. She was the boss. I'm strictly low-level."

Sam shook his head, looking disappointed. "I hate when people lie to me. Not that you pass for people, I guess. You're all demon."

"I'm not lying!"

Sam clenched a fist and the demon cried out in pain.

"Please stop!" it begged.

When he began to cry, Dean found it harder to see past the blond hair and tan skin to the demon that was possessing the kid. He looked like he had been a surfer type before his possession. Probably had a girl, a family that was looking for him. They would get him back soon, probably traumatized beyond belief, but they would get him back. If he lived.

Sam unclenched his fingers and said again, "What did she do with the colt?"

"I don't know!"

Sam sighed. "Here we go again."

A moment later, the demon was howling with pain again and bile was rising in Dean's throat.

"Dean," Sam said conversationally, not lessening the pressure on the demon. "You mind getting me a coffee?"

"Sure," Dean said, glad of an excuse to get out of the panic room and away from the noise. "Be right back."

He left the room and made his way up the stairs out of the basement. He felt the weight easing from his shoulders as he did. Just being away from the demon was a relief. When he got upstairs, he walked into the library and nodded to Bobby who was standing at the counter and filling the coffee pot with water.

"How's it going?" he asked.

"Nothing doing," Dean said. "It either doesn't know anything or is a damn good liar."

"Maybe both."

"Yeah," Dean sighed, "maybe."

"And how's Sam doing?"

Dean shrugged. "He doesn't seem to be hurting too bad, but it's still early." He hated that what they were doing hurt Sam. Castiel reassured them that he wasn't damaging himself the way he had before when he'd taken on Samhain. His powers were developed enough to work without that kind of strain on his mind, but there was nothing reassuring about nosebleeds and the frown lines etched in Sam's brow when the pain started.

Bobby opened a drawer and pulled out a yellow medicine bottle. He tossed it to Dean who caught it and read the label. "These are hardcore, Bobby," he said.

Bobby nodded. "They are. They're effective, too. If he needs them…"

"He'll stop before he needs these," Dean said, though there wasn't confidence in his voice.

"Course he will. Just in case. We don't want him hurting unnecessarily."

Dean pocketed the pills and rubbed a hand over his face, turning his attention to the slow drip of the coffee pot. He heard Bobby moving restlessly beside him, and he guessed there was something the older hunter wanted to talk about. He lasted all of a minute before turning to look at him again. There was a question in Bobby's eyes. "Dean, Sam's burning through these demons in a hurry and he's not using the knife at all, is he?"

"No. It's all on his powers."

"You don't think maybe he's having a little help?"

Dean frowned. "Help like what?"

"Blood."

Dean's eyes widened. "How….?"

"How do I know? Sam told me a while ago."

"Oh," Dean said lamely. He was shocked Sam had opened up to Bobby of all people about it, and he was even more surprised that Bobby sounded calm as he asked instead of furious as Dean would have expected. "You're not mad?" he asked.

Bobby smiled wryly. "No. I hate that he did it, the consequences were devastating, but I understand. He was trying to save you and then the world."

"I didn't want him to," Dean said. "I tried to stop him even. I couldn't."

"Course you couldn't. He's John Winchester's boy. No one could ever stop either of them doing what they thought was right." He shook his head looking a little sad. "You know, I said goodbye to your daddy in the worst way a long time ago, but these days I wish he was here. Sam needs him."

"Yeah," Dean said tiredly. "He really does. I do what I can, but I think Dad knew him better than I ever will. The years apart made me miss so much; I didn't see him become the man he is."

"That doesn't mean you don't know him," Bobby argued. "Just means there's some history missing. What I mean is that John would give Sam what he needs."

"What does he need?" Dean asked, wondering why he didn't already know and how he could deliver.

"Blame," Bobby said, "and forgiveness."

Dean opened his mouth to ask what Bobby was talking about when there was a knock on the door and Bobby turned away to answer it. Dean stared after him, wondering what Bobby meant when he said Sam needed blame, and then his mouth dropped open as he recognized the voice answering Bobby's gruff question of, "What do you want?"

"Uh, hi, I'm looking for Sam and Dean Winchester."

Dean peered around Bobby's shoulder and gaped at the man he had last seen in a post-apocalyptic vision of a messed up future. "Chuck?"

Chuck smiled grimly. "Hey."

* * *

Sam shook his head and swiped at the blood on his lip. His head was pounding and he wanted to sit down in silence for maybe a few days but he couldn't. This demon either knew nothing or wouldn't break, which meant they needed a new one for him to work on.

He closed his eyes, relishing the absence of searing light making his eyeballs feel like they were on fire for a moment, and spoke aloud. "Cas, if you're not busy on the God hunt, I've got a demon to send on home and a meat suit that's going to need to be dealt with."

"Send me on home?" the demon rasped. "You realize that doing that kills the meat suit, right?"

Sam ignored it. It was true that the human might die. It would not happen because of Sam though. The time in which he had strained them too hard exorcising them was long past. If the human died now it was because the demon had ridden him too hard.

"Better dead than stuck with you," Sam said tiredly.

There was a rustle and Castiel's dry voice greeted him. "Hello, Sam."

Sam nodded to him and turned to the demon. He looked into the hated black eyes and reached for its core. He gripped it tight and dragged it up and out of the kid. When he released it, the smoke sank down through the floor and the meat suit's chin dropped to his chest.

"He's alive," Castiel said.

"Good," Sam said, satisfied. "Can you take him to a hospital and drop him outside? Doesn't matter where as long as it's not in this state."

Castiel nodded and then hesitated with his hand reached out. "Who else is here?"

"Bobby and Dean."

"No," Castiel said. "There is power here, too." He disappeared with the young man, leaving Sam alone and scared.

Sam made for the steps without thought. Dean and Bobby were up there with whoever or whatever this power was. He burst into the living room and took in the man sitting on the edge of the couch. He had a scruffy beard and was dressed in creased jeans and shirt. His eyes were bloodshot and they watched Sam warily as he entered the room. Dean and Bobby were standing opposite him. Bobby looked mildly curious, but Dean looked almost afraid. Sam didn't think the fear was stemming from the unimpressive man so he wondered what had happened.

"Who's this?" he asked.

The man swallowed hard as Dean said, almost apologetically, "Sam, this is Chuck."

Sam frowned. The name meant something to him, but he couldn't think what. He was evidently supposed to know it though, so he searched his memories and came up with a conversation from weeks ago, when Dean had been telling him about his trip to the screwed up (and false) future. His eyes widened. "You're…"

"The prophet," Chuck supplied quietly. "Yeah."

"Bullshit." He didn't know what the angels hoped to gain by setting this whole thing up, but it was crap. Sam wasn't going to believe. Angels existed, sure, they were real. But prophets who could follow his and Dean's lives like a telenovela didn't exist. It was all…

"All crap," Chuck finished for him. "I'd like to think so too, but I'm here and real, and apparently so are you."

Sam glared at him. Had this jerk just read his mind?

"Not technically," Chuck said, as if Sam had asked the question aloud. "It's more that I remember key points of this conversation and what you were thinking from my dream. It's not mindreading exactly."

Sam started forward, fists clenched, but Dean stepped in front of him, hands upraised. "Sam, just take a breath, okay? It's not his fault he's an idiot. He's just trying to show you what he can do."

"Sure, I'm the idiot," Chuck muttered.

Sam surged forward, but Dean caught him around the chest and someone grabbed him from behind and Castiel spoke in his ear. "Sam, calm down. You cannot attack him."

"Watch me!" Sam said through gritted teeth. He struggled harder, hearing Castiel's impatient sigh just before his fingers reached for Sam's temple.

"Don't you dare!" Sam snarled.

It was too late. Castiel's fingers were against his temple and he was asleep.

* * *

Sam sagged forward in Castiel's grip, his chin hitting his chest and his eyes closing. His breaths, which had been rough as he struggled to free himself, were calm now. He was out. Castiel manhandled him over to the couch which Chuck had just vacated and laid him down. Dean set a cushion under his head and then turned to Castiel. "He's not going to be happy when he wakes up," he stated.

"I don't imagine he will be," Castiel said seriously.

Chuck watched it all from his spot in the corner, as far as he could get from Sam while remaining in the same room. It wasn't that he was scared of a punch exactly—he'd been through high school with glasses and a D&D obsession, he was familiar with ass kickings—it was that he was scared of a Sam punch. The guy was huge and more than a little terrifying. Chuck had something no one else in this room had: insight. Sam had told them all parts of the story of his recent life and the rest they had been there for, but Chuck was the only one who had _seen_ it all. He knew what Sam had done and what he had felt and thought while he had done it. He scared the hell out of Chuck. The other problem was that this was as far ahead as he'd seen—Sam being knocked out by Castiel. That was where he'd woken up and when Sam did the same, it would all be brand new for them all. Chuck might get punched after all.

"Come sit," Bobby said, gesturing Chuck to the kitchen table.

Casting Sam a quick glance, Chuck skirted the room and went to sit down.

"You want a drink?" Bobby asked. "I've got coffee, beer and rotgut whiskey."

"Rotgut, please," Chuck said gratefully.

Dean laughed softly and poured him a glass then set it down on the table. Chuck murmured thanks and sipped at it. It was possibly even more raw than the stuff he stocked at home, but it was also strong and alcoholic and exactly what he needed.

"So…" Bobby said expansively, "you're a prophet."

Chuck's eyes flicked to Castiel who nodded somberly. "He is. It is a pleasure to meet you Chuck. I admire your work."

"Uh, thanks," Chuck said awkwardly. He didn't often get acclaim for his books. There were forums and fan groups, but they seemed to spend more time complaining about what he wrote than praising it.

"You really write books about the boys' lives?" Bobby asked.

"Yes," Chuck admitted. "I stopped publishing them though," he quickly added, as though that lessened the incredulity and invasion of privacy that his writing was. "I brought one with me."

"This'll be a treat," Bobby said sarcastically as Chuck passed him the first book of the series— _Supernatural—_ from the paper sack he'd bought with him. Bobby skimmed the back cover and then flipped open a random page and read aloud. _"Sam's vision was blurring and he knew he was moments from losing consciousness. The cut couldn't be that deep, he'd be dead already if it was, but the blood loss was fast draining him. John raised the gun and Sam saw his finger easing down on the trigger. He wasn't scared, John would make the shot, but before the gun could fire, the hands holding him were gone and he was face down on the ground, his blood spilling onto the dirt."_

"That's enough!" an angry voice said behind them. Chuck craned his neck and saw Sam pushing himself upright on the couch. His expression was dark with anger and Chuck swallowed hard.

"Sorry," Bobby said, dropping the book down onto the table.

Sam got to his feet and stalked toward them. Chuck cringed back and Dean half rose but Sam shook his head and Dean sat again as some unspoken message passed between them. Was it 'I won't hurt him' or 'Don't interfere'? Chuck didn't know and wasn't that comforted by Dean's apparent ease.

Sam snatched the book from the table and carried it over to the fireplace, throwing it in. There were no flames burning in the grate, but the message behind the action was clear—get rid of it. That done, he came back into the kitchen and leaned against the counter, glaring balefully at Chuck. "Well," he snapped, "why are you here? Vanity or curiosity?"

Chuck squirmed in his seat. "Neither really. Definitely not vanity. No. I didn't even know you were real for sure until I arrived. I had no idea I was really special."

"You're not," Sam said brutally.

"No. Sure. Absolutely. You're right. Nothing special at all," Chuck agreed quickly. "I just meant I didn't know I was a prophet for real until I saw you both. I thought it was all just my crazy dreams."

"I don't know…" Bobby said, "Seems to me a prophet is kinda special."

Castiel nodded his agreement and Chuck wondered if they _wanted_ Sam to slug him. "It's really not," he said quickly.

"Agreed," Sam said. "Anyway, now you've seen us, proved we're real and that you're God's bitch. You can go now."

"If only I could," Chuck murmured then raised his voice. "I didn't come to prove you were real. I mean I did, but that's not the only reason I am here. I came about the colt."

Sam pushed away from the counter and loomed over him. Castiel was on his feet in an instant, reaching for Sam, but Sam brushed his hand away and shook his head. "I'm not attacking him, Cas. I just want to talk to him."

"Technically, you don't need to be sitting on his lap while you do," Bobby said and Chuck laughed nervously.

Sam huffed out an irritated breath and moved to stand by the counter again. "Better?" he asked.

"Much," Castiel said. Chuck nodded his agreement.

"What do you know about the colt?" Sam asked intensely.

"I know who has it."

There was an explosion of noise and Chuck hunched his shoulders against it. People were shouting questions and it sounded as though Sam and Castiel were in a heated debate about whether or not Sam should be allowed to shake the information out of Chuck. Eventually, Castiel threw his arms up and said, "It is as though you _want_ to die!"

The room fell silent.

"Sam?" Dean said. Chuck saw the strain in his eyes. It was not surprising. Sam had died more than once and come close even more. Dean lived in constant fear that it would happen again.

Sam laughed. "Cas, I get that he's a prophet and all, but I don't think he's _that_ much of a threat. Look at him. He's a marshmallow."

Castiel rolled his eyes. "He might be a…marshmallow… but the archangel that is destined to protect him is not." He looked from Sam's doubt to Dean's fear and went on. "Chuck is a messenger of God. The archangel Raphael is his protector."

Sam's laughter trailed off. "You telling me he's got an archangel tethered to him and you let him stay?"

Castiel nodded. "Raphael isn't tethered to him the way you would think. He would sense real danger to him and if Chuck was injured, he would come, but he is distracted by the apocalypse right now so won't be with him at all times."

"But this is the archangel that _killed_ you?" Dean asked.

Castiel nodded. "The same."

"Why aren't you a thousand miles from here right now?" Sam asked. "I saw him, Cas. He wouldn't hesitate before killing you again."

Chuck was wondering the same thing. Through Sam's eyes he had seen Castiel's death, and he knew how horrific it had been and how Raphael hadn't hesitated.

"I am not afraid," Castiel said simply.

"Awesome," Bobby said. "Now let's get back to this colt business. You know where it is?"

"Do you remember the demon Crowley?" Chuck asked.

Dean nodded. "King of the Crossroads, right?"

"Yes. He has the colt. Lilith gave it to him before she went to Maryland and, unless something has vastly changed, he still has it."

Sam sagged back and ran a hand over his face, looking stunned. "Crowley?"

Dean stood and clapped him on the shoulder, a fanatical light gleaming in his eyes. "Crowley!"

Chuck understood their excitement better than perhaps anyone in the room, because he knew just how scared they were of Lucifer and what could happen, and how guilty they felt for what had happened—Sam especially.

"Okay," Sam said, businesslike, turning to Chuck. "Do you know where we'll find him?"

Chuck shook his head. "Afraid not. I only ever saw him and Lilith once and that was when the gun was handed over."

"Not a problem," Sam said calmly. "I just ended the demon we had locked down in the basement, but there are plenty others out there for me to talk to. We'll find him. We can do this. Thank you, Chuck. Seriously. Special or not, you might have just saved the world."

Chuck ducked his head, overwhelmed and embarrassed. The air in the room seemed a hundred times lighter than it had been since his arrival. _Saved the world._

* * *

 **So… Chuck came calling. Originally, Chuck was supposed to come into Bound By Blood but the story took a different direction and he was missed. Better late than never though, right?**

 **Thank you all for the reviews and PMs. I really appreciate the support for the story.**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	10. Chapter 10

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy for beta'ing, and SandraEngstrom2 and Gredelina1 for all your help.**

 **Thank you all for reviewing and supporting the story.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Ten**_

Once again, Dean and Bobby were in the library, sipping coffee and trying not to hear the howls of pain coming from the basement as Sam attempted to extract information from a demon. He had burned through a handful already, failing to get a location for Crowley from any of them, but rather than making him stop, rest and recover, the failures made him even more determined. Dean was starting to think he was going to need to persuade Castiel to knock Sam out to force him to get some rest.

He didn't want to overpower Sam's will, but the fact was that he was worried for his brother. He needed to stop. He needed sleep. He to be out of that damned panic room for more time than it took to use the bathroom and grab a snack. It was only Dean's absolute refusal to take him food down there that made him come up in the first place. Sam was obsessed. And while Dean understood it, even felt the same need for this to work, he knew that Sam burning himself out wasn't going to help anyone. Saving the world was not a sprint; it was a marathon.

His thoughts must have shown on his face, as Bobby said, "He'll be okay, you know."

"You know that for a fact do you?" He immediately felt bad for being rude to his oldest friend. "Sorry, Bobby. It's just that…"

"You're worried," Bobby finished for him. "Course you are. I am too. I just mean Sam knows his limits. Sure, he pushes them sometimes, but he knows that he needs to play the long game with this thing."

Dean tried to feel reassured, but he also knew his brother. Sam had exhausted himself to the point of collapse going after War. There was no guarantee he wouldn't do it again.

He set his mug down and made for the basement stairs. "I'm just going to see if he needs anything."

At that moment, the howls of pain from below them cut off.

"I'm guessing he needs a new demon," Bobby said wryly.

Dean sighed and walked away, but before he could reach the stairs, Sam was coming up them. He looked wrecked but satisfied as he locked eyes with Dean. "I'm done."

"Good," Dean said, stepping back to let him pass. "Do you want Cas to take us home, or are you going to crash here?"

"No," Sam said, shaking his head. "I'm not done with the demon—I am done with the search. I got an address. Crowley is in L.A."

Dean breathed a sigh of relief.

"Cas," Sam called, and Dean heard the strain in his voice, "you got a minute?"

Castiel appeared beside Dean and said, "Another demon?" in a neutral tone.

"Not this time," Sam said. "We got an address for Crowley."

Castiel looked surprised but pleased. "Where is he?"

"1640 Revello Drive. North of Los Angeles."

A satisfied smile crept across Castiel's face. "I will find him and retrieve the colt."

Sam nodded. "Was hoping you'd say that."

Castiel disappeared with the now familiar flutter and Sam made his way over to the table and sat down beside Bobby, snagging Dean's mug and sipping the coffee. Though he was obviously trying to be covert about it, he clearly needed the jolt of caffeine.

There was a second rustle and Castiel appeared again; it had only been a handful of seconds since he'd departed.

Sam raised an eyebrow. "That was quick. I figured King of the Crossroads would have a little more security than that."

"He does," Castiel said dourly. "The house he lives in is covered in Enochian sigils. I will not be able to get closer than the boundary walls. Also, there are many demons providing security."

"They're not a problem," Sam said confidently. Dean grimaced—more exorcising, more strain.

"So, basically, we've got to get inside and find the colt and get out before Crowley realizes we're there," Bobby said.

Sam glanced at him and his eyes narrowed but he didn't speak.

"Basically, yes," Castiel said.

"Can't we cancel out the sigils somehow?" Dean asked. "That's what Sam and Anna did with theirs."

"I do not think that is possible. The sigils are multiple and the demons many. I think we're going to have to accept that I can't help you this time."

"That's okay, Cas," Sam said. "We did plenty other tough stuff before you signed up to help, and we made it out okay."

Dean shifted from foot to foot and Bobby coughed. Dean thought their thoughts were on the same path—they'd done plenty and they'd been hurt in the process. Dean wouldn't let this setback stop them going after the colt, with or without Castiel, but he wouldn't pretend the idea didn't worry him. He couldn't help but wonder who would suffer this time.

* * *

Though Sam was ready to leave for California almost at once, Dean refused to go until Sam had slept. Though Sam understood his concern, it was frustrating. He didn't argue much though. He accepted it was better to go in with a clear head rather than the weary mess he had been. It was easier to work with demons than it had ever been before, but it was also so much more tiring without the blood in him. He knew he would have to get used to it though, because he was never going back to that.

When he got down to the kitchen at the appointed time for Castiel to meet them, he was unsurprised to see Bobby tooled up and ready to go with them. He thought of arguing for all of a second, but then he caught the determined look in Bobby's eyes and merely nodded. There was no reason for Bobby _not_ to go other than Sam didn't want him to. He might even be an asset.

Dean looked relieved when Sam didn't argue, though he became concerned again as Sam tossed him the demon knife. Sam had a shrewd idea of what Dean was thinking—more demons, more exorcising, more pressure. Sam understood, though he wasn't worried for himself. He doubted there would be more demons at Crowley's than there had been in the War hunt, and he'd made it out of that one okay, if a little exhausted.

"Only use it if you're forced," Sam said to Dean.

Dean nodded. "Got it."

They would kill if it was a choice between them and a demon, but they were both hyperaware that killing a demon meant killing a person, too. Sam had learned that lesson the hard way. The poor woman that he'd killed by draining that demon in Maryland.

"Bobby, you got what you need?" Sam asked.

Bobby patted his duffel. "Enough holy water to swim in and every exorcism memorized. I'm good."

"Then let's go," Sam said, looking to Castiel.

The angel nodded once and then Sam felt himself moving. They came to rest in front of a large house with high walls and a gate surrounding it. Without a word, they all ducked to the side of the gate, out of sight. Through it Sam could see a man walking away from them at a steady pace, patrolling. He hadn't noticed their arrival.

"Demon?" he asked in a low voice.

"Yes," Castiel replied.

"What's the plan?" Bobby asked.

"I'll go in over the top, find a way to open the gate," Sam replied.

Dean looked at the top of the wall and raised an eyebrow. "That's pretty high, Sam, even for you."

Sam nodded. "Going to need a little help."

Dean walked forward and linked his hands to give Sam a leg up. Sam gripped the ridge of the wall and stepped into Dean's grip. It didn't get him high enough to reach the top of the wall, but by bending his knees and pushing himself up, he could jump and grip the top. He heard Dean's curse and he muttered an apology as he dragged himself up and onto the wall.

He was concealed from the house by trees, and he took a moment before carefully lowering himself to hang the other side and then letting go. His knees took the impact of his landing and he grunted.

"Sam?" Dean asked in a whisper.

"I'm fine," he said under his breath. "Give me a few minutes. I want to check something."

"What? Wait? That wasn't the plan."

Sam didn't reply. He crept out of the trees and scouted around for a gate release. There was a keypad set into the wall and he looked it over quickly before making for the side of the house, whispering, "Be right back."

"Sam!" Dean hissed.

He followed the sound of boot heels on gravel around the house, after the demon he had seen before. He moved so fast the demon had hardly time to turn before Sam had its arm twisted behind its back and a hand over its mouth.

"My name is Sam Winchester. Do you know who I am?" he asked in a whisper.

The demon nodded against his hand.

"Do you know what I can do?"

When the demon nodded again, Sam moved his hand just enough for the demon to be able to speak.

"Good. Now, what's the release code for the gate?"

"Do you know what he'll do to me?" the demon asked.

Sam smiled darkly. "Do you know what _I'll_ do to you?" He didn't give the demon a chance to answer before focusing his mind and putting pressure on the demon's core. It grunted with pain, the sound muffled by Sam's hand.

"Now, what's the gate code?" he asked.

The demon panted. "He'll kill me."

"Who could blame him?" Sam asked conversationally, squeezing again.

"Six!" the demon hissed. "The code is six-six-six."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Imaginative."

He dragged the demon back toward the gate, hoping no one was looking out of the darkened windows. When they were within earshot, Sam heard Dean hissing his name and he shushed him. "I'm here."

He maneuvered the demon so he could reach the keypad. He dialed in the numbers, and smiled as the gate opened smoothly. Sam moved back to hide between the trees and wall again.

"Let me go," the demon begged.

"Sure," Sam said sarcastically. Bobby and Dean crept through the gate and joined Sam and the demon. "Bobby, you mind?" Sam asked. He could have exorcised with ease, but why do it unless needed?

Bobby smiled grimly as he started the Latin that would exorcise. When the last of the smoke had billowed away, Sam released the man who was shaking and asking who they were and what they wanted.

"Go now," Sam said to him. "Find a hospital. Find your family. Get away from here."

The man took one look at Sam's serious expression and ran.

"Okay," Sam said. "That was the easy part. We've got to get into the house now."

He jogged around the house to the back. In his experience, it was always easier to get in through a rear door than a front. People tended to be a little less security savvy there. When they reached it, Sam snorted.

"How is this guy king of anything?" Bobby asked. "How dumb can you be?"

There were French doors at the back and they were standing wide open. Sam supposed that when you were a demon of Crowley's caliber, you figured you were safe anywhere. Lucky for them, he was wrong.

Sam took the lead as they crept through the doors into a vast room. It was paneled with dark wood and there was a fireplace burning on the opposite wall with two wing chairs on either side.

"Thinks a lot of himself, doesn't he?" Bobby said.

His voice was soft, but it was enough to draw attention to them. Sam cursed as the double doors across the room flew open and three demons rushed inside. They were dressed in the same uniform as the demon outside had been.

He reached for the one in the middle, and yanked his arm up, feeling a spike of pain in his head as the demon's core was ripped out of the host's mouth. He quickly released it and grabbed at the demon that was coming for Dean.

Though Dean had the knife in his hand, he wasn't using it. He was just wielding it as a threat. Sam wrenched the demon out with all his strength and released it quickly before turning his attention to Bobby. He had a red mark standing out on his cheek and the demon he was facing was drawing back a fist to land another blow. With a shaking hand and ferocious headache, Sam exorcised the demon. As the last of the smoke dripped down to the polished wood floor, he closed his eyes for a moment and took a breath. Someone laid a hand on his shoulder and he turned, expecting to see Dean but meeting Bobby's eyes instead.

"You okay, boy?" he asked.

"Yeah," Sam said wearily. He was tired and his head was aching but he wasn't bleeding, so he called it a win.

"Think there's more of them?" Bobby asked.

"Probably," Sam said.

"We better get searching then."

Sam looked around the room, considering likely hiding places, and his eyes fell on the desk. It was a bit too obvious for the colt to be there, he thought, but he'd be a fool not to look. He opened a drawer and found a stack of files. The next drawer revealed a cigar box and clipper. The third was locked, and Sam felt a thrill of hope. He bent to get to work on the lock, and then heard someone clearing his throat. It didn't sound like Dean or Bobby.

"Looking for something?" an accented voice asked.

Sam straightened and looked into the eyes of a man with dark hair and scruff of stubble. "Crowley," he sighed.

"Nice to see you again, Moose, and you, Dean. And…" He looked Bobby up and down. "You must be Singer."

Bobby nodded mutely.

"To what do I owe the visit?" Crowley asked.

"Heard you have something we want," Sam said.

"This?" Crowley asked, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a familiar antique gun: the colt.

Sam's heart skipped a beat as he raised his arm and reached for the demon's core. He had barely opened his fist before Crowley was gone. "What the…?"

"Now, was that polite?" Crowley asked behind him.

Sam spun on his heel and reached for him again. Crowley vanished.

"Don't strain yourself, Moose. I could do this all day," he said from the opposite side of the room. "Besides, you're not going into this smart. I've not shown myself to you for shits and giggles. Way I see it, this can end one of two ways: I kill you, your brother and Grandpa over there, or we talk about this like the reasonable men some of us are." He eyed Sam speculatively. "I'm not sure about you, mate."

"What do you want to talk about?" Dean asked.

"Lucifer," Crowley said. "You and me, we've got something in common. We all want to do away with the bastard."

" _You_ want to kill Lucifer?" Bobby asked, his tone steeped in doubt.

"Me?" he asked. "Do I look suicidal to you? Hell, no. I want to stay as far from that psycho as I can. I want _you_ to kill him. I don't mind which. Toss a coin if you like. Just as long as Lucifer is stopped, I'll be a happy demon."

"I thought the demons were on Lucifer's side," Bobby said.

"The dumb ones are, yes," he agreed. "There are some of us with half an ounce of common sense though. We see the big picture, and we're not going to line ourselves up to be slaughtered when he takes over. See, Lucifer doesn't like humans. They're an abomination to him. What do you think he'll do when your lot is taken out? He'll move onto the other abominations: demons. Just because he made us, doesn't mean he _likes_ us."

"And you're going to help us kill him?" Sam asked.

"Kinda," Crowley said. "I am going to arm you so you can skip off like good little cannon fodder and do the job for me."

Sam leaned forward slightly in spite of himself. "You'll give us the colt?"

"Well there's not much point sending you after Satan with a potato gun, is there? I'll hand over the colt as long as you promise to kill the devil with it."

"Done," Sam said quickly.

Crowley snorted. "Eager, aren't you?"

"I've got nothing else planned for the weekend," Sam said sarcastically.

"No, I don't imagine you do," Crowley said.

He held out the gun and Sam stepped forward quickly and reached for it. He expected Crowley to pull it back any moment—it couldn't possibly be that easy—but he didn't. Sam's fingers curled around the cold barrel and Crowley released it. Sam turned it in his hand and examined it, his heart skipping a beat.

"I guess that concludes our business," Crowley said. "Now, if you gentlemen would sod off, that'd be great. You're making the place look untidy."

"One more thing," Sam said, turning the gun in his hand and raising it to point carefully between Crowley's eyes. He pulled the trigger on an empty chamber.

Crowley laughed. "Oh, I guess I forgot something." He reached into his coat again and threw a leather case to Dean. He opened it to reveal rows of bullets.

" _Now_ we're done." Crowley said, looking at Dean. "I'd keep them to myself till you need them. I heard little brother has a habit of taking one to the chest when things get tough."

He laughed as he disappeared once again.

* * *

When they got back to The Roadhouse from Bobby's place, it was early morning. Dean refused a drink and went straight to bed, as he'd had no rest the day before. Sam needed a belt of something, though, and a little time to think, so he'd gotten himself a bottle from behind the bar and set himself up at their table.

He took the colt from his jacket and set it down on the table, just admiring it for a moment. It was a beautiful weapon, with its smooth lines, delicate engraving and carved grip, but it was the power that the thing held that was its real beauty. It was the weapon that was going to kill Lucifer. It would rescue the world from Sam's mistake.

He flipped the cylinder open and loaded the gun with bullets from the case Crowley had given them. It felt even better to have it loaded. To Sam's mind, keeping a gun like the colt empty was tantamount to stupidity.

He flicked the cylinder and watched the bullets spin, mesmerized. He was so distracted he didn't hear Ellen coming until she was in the doorway. She looked horrified. For a moment, Sam was confused, and then he realized she thought she had walked in on him just in time to stop him taking the big exit, again. Though he deserved her suspicion, he hated that he had put that look on her face; it burned him.

He snapped the cylinder back in place and said, "We got it, Ellen. The colt!"

She came into the room and sat down beside him. "I see." The lines of stress were still there though. She wasn't wholly reassured.

"Ellen," he said softly, uncomfortable in the face of her emotion but determined to make it right. "You don't have to worry."

"I can do nothing but worry," she said forcefully. "Don't you see that?"

Sam looked her in the eye. "I see it."

"I don't think you do. You've always been the one to leave."

"I won't leave again," he said quickly.

"You can't promise me that, honey. If someone told you tomorrow that you could save by sacrificing yourself, you'd do it, wouldn't you?"

"Save who?" Sam asked. If it was someone he loved, he would do it in an instant. There was nothing he wouldn't do for what remained of his family. For a stranger? Perhaps. For the world? No question. He had told them all that no one's life was worth more than that. He had meant his life.

"The fact you're not saying no straight out means I'm right," Ellen said bowing her head for a moment and then looking him in the eye, her gaze feverish. "Do you have any idea how it feels to love someone and know they could leave you in a heartbeat? Not because of nature, or someone else, no. Do you know how it feels to love someone that can leave you so willingly?"

Sam thought back to the year before Dean's deal came due. He thought of how he had felt when they'd been going after the Muitsi and Dean had been prepared to cancel himself out of their lives to make it easier on them when he went to Hell. "Yes."

"Then you know what it feels like to love you. And you know how scared I am that you will leave me again."

"I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head.

Ellen wiped at her face, catching the tears as they fell. "You're not sorry enough to tell me it won't happen though, are you."

"I can't," Sam said.

She drew in a shaky breath. "Can you promise to say goodbye at least?"

Sam smiled sadly. "I can try."

She gripped his chin tight and lifted his face so he had to look her in the eye. "Say the word, Sam."

"I promise," he said. "If I can stay, I will, and if I can't, I'll do my best to say goodbye."

Another tear crept down her cheek and Sam shifted his chair so he was pressed against her side. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her in close. "I'm sorry, Ellen," he said. "I swear, I am sorry."

She nestled in against him in a rare show of need and Sam rested his head against hers. He hated that he had done this to her.

"Whoa! Gotta say, this wasn't what I was expecting to arrive in on. What did you do _this_ time, Winchester?"

Sam's head snapped up and he was on his feet in an instant. "Gabriel!"

The archangel was standing by the door, a smug smile in place and hand on his hip as he looked at Ellen. "We've not been introduced. I'm…"

"You're the bastard that screws with Sam and Dean," Ellen snarled. "You're the one that stuck Sam in TortureVille without his brother for months."

"Aw, come on," Gabriel said, "Torture? It wasn't that bad, was it?"

"What are you doing here—" Sam started to ask and then his words cut off with a gasp of Ellen's name as she lifted the colt and pointed it at Gabriel.

Her hand shook and her lip trembled as she spoke through her tears. "You're not taking him, you hear? Neither of them. I don't care what new _lesson_ "—she spat the word—"you've got for them, you won't ever touch them again."

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. "Wow, look at Momma Bear. All growly and ready to protect her cubs. That's cute. In fact, I—"

A sharp crack rang out, vibrating in Sam's ears. The bullet entered Gabriel at the temple, and his head flew back a split second before his knees buckled and he fell back. He hit the closed door and slid down it, his chin coming to rest on his chest, unmoving.

Someone shouted his name, but he didn't speak. His attention was fixed on the archangel on the floor, the angel the colt had just killed.

* * *

Dean was ripped from sleep by the sound of a gunshot and his heart relocated to his throat as he leapt from the bed and raced out of the room, shouting for Sam.

 _Not him! Not again, please God, not Sam!_

Though how could it not be?

He skidded to a halt in the door of the bar and his eyes found his brother at once—his miraculously alive, standing brother. He paid no attention to the rest of the room; he just raced barefoot across the room to his side. Turning him, raking hands over his chest, searching for the wound.

"Not me," Sam said, his voice low and echoing. "Dean, I'm fine. It's not me" He caught Dean's wrists and held them. "Dean!"

The words penetrated Dean's mind and exquisite relief swept through him. Not Sam. Not this time.

"Who?" he asked.

Sam thumbed over his shoulder and Dean looked. Gabriel was propped half lying against the door. Dean stared at him stunned, trying to make sense of the scene. He heard Ellen's gasp as the archangel began to stir.

"Owwww. That hurt." Gabriel shook his head and got to his feet, the wound on his temple fading until it disappeared.

The color drained from Sam's face, and he lurched away from Dean to stand in front of Ellen with his arms spread wide. Dean didn't understand what had happened or why, but he added his protection to Sam's, positioning himself in front of Ellen.

Gabriel brushed himself down and looked across the room at them, his expression almost amused. "Lesson learned: don't mess with Momma Bear."

"Touch her and I will end you," Sam snarled.

He quirked an eyebrow. "Really? How do you plan to do that? You just saw me get shot in the head with the kill-anything gun and, hey, I'm still kicking."

"We'll find a way," Dean threatened.

Gabriel clapped a hand to his heart. "Oh, I am so scared. Lucky for you and your gun-toting Momma, I came here to deliver a message, and getting shot in the head delivered it pretty effectively."

"What's the message?" Ellen asked roughly.

"You can't kill the devil," Gabriel said. "Duh."

"Is this brotherly concern?" Sam asked.

"No, dumbass, it's a fact. You cannot kill him. Only one person can, and it isn't a Winchester. That would be Michael's job, remember?"

"Seriously, you're not maybe worried big brother is going to bite it?"

Gabriel rolled his eyes. "This right here, this is why I came. You are so damn arrogant you actually think you can kill the devil with a manmade weapon. In what world would that make sense? Sure, it took down Azazel, but he was nothing more than a pumped up demon. Lucifer is an archangel. The only weapon that's got a chance is an archangel blade, and"—he shielded his eyes and looked around theatrically—"you don't have one."

"You do," Ellen said.

"True, but if you think I'm handing it over, you're out of your mind. The only thing I'd achieve by handing over my blade is a dead Winchester. If he finds you, Lucifer will kill Dean out of annoyance and he will trap you so fast, Sam, your head will spin. You will be begging him to take you over before the day is out."

"Never," Sam growled.

Gabriel looked at him almost sympathetically. "Yes. One day soon. You won't be able to resist. Lucifer will take you, Sam, and the world will burn because of it."

"You want it to end," Dean accused. "Why would you want that? You're part of this world, too."

"Why do you think?" Gabriel asked. "I want it over. One of them will kill the other. Do you have any idea how it feels to know that? I love my family, my brothers, and I am going to have to watch them fight to destroy each other. And this world, the world that I love, will never recover."

"Help us stop it," Dean pleaded. "Stop Lucifer.

"Like you stopped your brother?" he snarled, fixing Dean with a glare. "I tried to show you. I gave you the information you needed. I warned you, and you failed. You expect me to kill my brother now? No. I cannot, will not, do it."

"We will do it ourselves then," Sam said.

"You'll try," Gabriel said, "because that's what you do. The colt won't work—you know that. There is nothing else but God, and He's been on a millennia long vacation. You can try and fail, or you can accept your destinies now and get it over with. Stop it before more people suffer. That's the only way you can save now."

"You're a coward. _You_ could save, but you won't. What kind of angel are you?"

"An angel that is tired of seeing people die because you two are too damn stubborn to do what needs to be done."

"The colt?" Dean said quietly. "It really won't work?"

"No," Gabriel said. "It won't." He looked from one to the other of them and shook his head. "I'm sorry, boys, but you're on your own."

With a sound like sheets in the wind, he disappeared, leaving them alone in the large room.

Dean turned to Sam who was looking down at the place Gabriel had been standing with a hard look in his eyes. "Sammy?"

"I won't," Sam said. "I will not say yes."

"We know, honey," Ellen said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Neither of you will."

"We'll find another way," Dean said. "We always do." But as he said it he felt a chill of fear as remembered howls of hellhounds echoed through his mind.

* * *

 **So… A little Crowley and a gun-toting Ellen. So much fun to write. Hopefully fun to read.**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	11. Chapter 11

**Jenjoremy rocked this chapter and SandraEngstrom2 and Gredelina1 were fantastic in helping me get the details nailed down. Thank you ladies xxx**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Eleven**_

Sam was up and out running before Dean was finished in the shower the next morning. With Jo on her hunt and Ash still sleeping the sleep of the alcohol sodden, Ellen sat alone in the kitchen, staring into the depths of her coffee. Dean poured himself a mug and took a seat beside her at the table.

"You okay?" he asked.

She shook her head without looking at him. "No. I'm not. I'm scared."

He couldn't help but marvel at the feeling of someone being open and upfront about how they were feeling. He had become so accustomed to Sam's reticence that, even though it had improved recently, it felt strange to get an honest answer from Ellen.

"We'll find another way to deal with Lucifer," he said reassuringly.

She drew a breath. "For once, he's not who I'm thinking of. I was thinking of the other damn archangel that screws everything up. The one I shot." The bitterness in her tone was like a barb against Dean's skin.

"Do you regret it?" Dean asked.

To his knowledge, Ellen had never fired a shot in anger before, let alone aimed to kill. For those moments Gabriel lay unmoving on the floor, she must have thought herself a killer. That wasn't something you just handled. Dean remembered his first kill; though at the time he had been buzzing with adrenaline and the realization that hunting was his future, he had felt guilty later when he realized he'd killed a person, too.

"Not for an instant," she said determinedly. "I would do it again in a heartbeat. He was here to hurt one of you and I couldn't let that happen again. I have to see you, Jo and Sam go out, time after time, and know you're putting your lives at risk. I can't stop you doing that, much as I wish I could. I have lost both you and Sam before, and with this new fight, Lucifer and Michael wanting you as vessels, I am scared every day." She closed her eyes for a moment and drew a breath. "When I saw Sam last night, sitting there with that gun, I thought he was going to hurt himself again."

Dean understood the fear. "When I heard the shot, I thought the same."

"He scares me," she said. "We had a talk about it, what he'd sacrifice for others and how he leaves. He promised to try to stay and to say goodbye if he couldn't, but…" her face crumpled, "I don't want a goodbye. I want my boy."

Dean swallowed hard. He wanted his brother, too. He shared Ellen's fears. He knew Sam would give his life in a heartbeat to save, more so now than ever since Lucifer had been freed. He felt so much guilt all the time; he was drowning under it.

Ellen reached across the table and gripped his hand hard. "We have to find another way, Dean! We have to!"

Dean knew it. He nodded stiffly and cleared his throat. "God," he said.

It was the only option he could think of now. Gabriel had said it was the only hope they had. Castiel was already working on the idea. Dean hadn't had much faith in it before. He figured a God that sat through centuries of wars, death and destruction, that silently watched the breaking of the seals by Lilith, wouldn't stand up now to help, but what else could they do? They had to trust in Him.

Ellen scoffed. "You really think He'll help us?"

"I think He's all we've got," Dean said. "The colt won't kill Lucifer and we don't have an archangel blade. Even if we did, it's not like we could sneak up on him to stab him. I think God's our only hope."

* * *

"Yes," Castiel said emphatically. "God _will_ help us."

Sam managed not to roll his eyes, but it was an effort. He had come back from his run to find Ellen and Dean both looking at him with a strange expression—it was almost fearful—and talking about God. Sam didn't think He would rouse himself for anything, including an apocalypse, and he had no idea how to even find Him, but he was willing to listen because he had no alternative.

"The problem is finding Him," Castiel went on. "I have searched, but this"—he held up the pendant Dean usually wore—"has not burned as it should in His presence."

"What makes you think He is even here?" Sam asked. "He's got a whole universe to hide out in; why would He choose earth?"

"Because it is His most beloved creation," Castiel said. "It is here you find humanity."

Now Sam did roll his eyes. He didn't rate humanity as high as Castiel obviously did.

"We can't rely on Cas and a magic necklace," Ellen said. "There has to be another way to get hold of Him. It's God, after all. Can't we just, I don't know, pray?"

Sam turned away so Ellen wouldn't see his incredulous look—she seemed uncharacteristically delicate that morning. When he was sure he had his expression in check, he looked back to her. "Ellen, can you imagine how many prayers He must hear on a daily basis? I haven't heard of a single one being answered yet."

"There are sometimes answers," Dean said in an aggravatingly reasonable tone. "There are miracles, right?"

Castiel nodded. "God answers all prayers. It's just that sometimes the answer is no or not now."

"Okay, Cas," Dean said. "You're obviously the one here with a head-start knowing Him. What else is there that can help us other than the necklace?"

"Someone that has _known_ Him," Castiel said. "I believe if God would answer anyone, it would be one of the archangels. From what you told me of the night's events, Gabriel is not going to help us. We need someone else."

"Not Michael," Sam said quickly. He wasn't encouraging the archangel that wanted to use his brother's body like a cheap suit to come anywhere near him.

"No, Michael has not taken a vessel, even a secondary one as Lucifer has," Castiel said. "There is another that has though."

Sam's confused frown morphed into a scowl as he realized what Castiel was saying. "No! Not a chance, Cas. Last time you saw him, he stabbed you!"

Castiel smiled slightly, though Sam could think of nothing amusing about the situation. "He will not kill me this time. I have a plan."

"Oh, a plan," Sam said sarcastically. "They always work out so well for us. What's the deal this time? You going to wear Kevlar?"

"I don't know what Kevlar is," Castiel admitted. "It doesn't matter. We are going to trap him."

"How are we going to do that?" Dean asked.

Castiel looked smug. "Holy fire."

Sam held up his hands. "Wait! What the hell is holy fire?"

"I will show you," Castiel said. "I won't be a long."

"Where are you going?" Dean asked, but the angel had already disappeared.

There was a beat of silence, in which Sam looked from Ellen's to Dean's hopeful faces and wondered if he was the only person seeing the potential disaster of this plan, then Castiel appeared again, smile in place and roughly molded clay pitcher in his hand.

"Jerusalem," He answered Dean's question as if there had been no break in the conversation, as if he hadn't just taken a quick trip to the Middle East. "Come with me."

They followed him out of the bar onto the scrubby grass that made up the rear of the property. He bent and tipped the pitcher, pouring a small amount of oil onto the ground. "Your lighter," he said, holding out a hand to Sam who handed it over and watched as Castiel flicked the flame at the edge of the pool of oil. It ignited at once, burning with a rich orange flame.

"This is holy fire," Castiel said. "If an angel was to pass through the flames, he would be destroyed."

"Hang on," Sam said, hope kindling inside him. "You mean this could kill an angel?"

"A seraph," Castiel amended. "Not an archangel. The most it would do to an archangel is momentarily banish them. That and hurt immensely. Raphael will not risk being banished and he will not want to suffer the agony of touching the flame."

Sam could still see one gaping hole in the plan though. "How are we luring him out though?" Sam asked.

Castiel looked a little apologetic. "I don't know."

Sam sighed heavily. Even though the plan was shaky and likely-to-fail, it _was_ a plan, and that was more than they'd started the day with.

"Uh," Dean raised a tentative hand, "I might have an idea."

* * *

Dean pressed the doorbell and then stepped back, waiting. There was movement through the glass, and he saw it pause for a moment.

"Open up, Chuck," Sam said loudly. "We're coming in either way."

The figure through the window came close and there was the sound of multiple locks disengaging. The door creaked open and Chuck peered out. "Hey, guys," he said with forced cheer.

"Hey," Dean said, and Sam nodded to him.

Chuck stepped back and Dean followed Sam inside.

Dean looked around the room they came into, taking in the empty liquor bottle on the desk and dirty glass. If he'd given it much thought, he would have guessed Chuck lived in a place like this—it was a free world approximation of the cabin he'd had in that hellish future vision.

"You know why we're here?" Sam asked.

Chuck grimaced. "Yeah. I don't suppose there's any way I can persuade you to change your mind, is there?"

"That depends," Sam said. "Have you seen if it'll work?"

"I've seen you talking to him," Chuck admitted. "That's when I freaked out and woke up. For the record, I think this is a really bad idea and don't want any part of it."

"We don't want to involve you, but you're our best shot," Dean said apologetically. "We _need_ to talk to him."

"Yeah," Chuck sighed. "I know. Do me a favor though. Come outside before you start. I don't want my floor scorched."

Sam nodded and they filed out through the kitchen into the backyard.

Dean understood Chuck's reluctance, as he felt the same way. He was afraid Raphael was going to slip through the trap and get away, possibly with one of them as hostage to hand-deliver to their respective archangel. There were so many ways it could go wrong, but, as he had told Chuck, it was their best shot at getting some answers. The fact Chuck had seen them talking with Raphael was great; it meant they had a chance at least.

Dean tried to reassure Chuck with a glance while Sam poured the circle of holy oil on the paved ground.

"Ready, Chuck?" Sam asked, straightening and stowing the cask of holy oil back in his duffel.

"Yeah," Chuck sighed. "Ready when you are. Be gentle."

Sam stepped back and closed his eyes. When they opened again it was like he was a different person—a person without care for anyone else. Dean hated the sight, but he had to play his part.

Dean couldn't be sure whether Chuck was playing along or if he was actually scared as he raised his hands in front of him and said, "Sam, please don't."

Sam's dead eyes fixed on him as he stepped forward into his space and pulled back an arm. Chuck cowered back. "Please," he whispered.

Sam's fist struck out and landed a blow to the side of Chuck's face. Dean's eyes raked the yard as he rushed forward and grabbed Sam's arms, playing his part while hoping desperately that Raphael would show up soon. When Sam drove himself forward, Dean's grip failed and Sam was able to pull his Taurus from the back of his pants. He aimed it at Chuck's chest and his eyes narrowed.

"Sam, no!" Dean shouted, unsure if he was acting anymore. He wasn't sure—and would never in life ask—whether Sam would have shot Chuck in the name of the mission. It didn't matter though, as at that moment a bolt of lightning shot from the cloudless sky and struck the ground.

"Finally," Sam breathed.

Dean hadn't seen Raphael before, but he recognized the man that appeared in front of them from Sam's description. Even without that, he would have known it was an archangel, as the man exuded confidence and power.

He sneered. "Winchesters."

"Dick," Sam said coolly.

He advanced toward them, and Sam smiled smugly as he unknowingly stepped into the center of the holy oil circle. Dean wasted no time flicking open his lighter and sparking it. He dropped it down onto the oil and flames roared up.

Raphael looked down at the flames that surrounded him and then up to look at them again. "Mistake."

Sam shrugged, showing none of the fear Dean felt.

"You guys mind if I…?" Without waiting for an answer, Chuck fled into the house.

"Why have you brought me here?" Raphael asked.

"You mean why have we _trapped_ you here?" Sam asked. "Well, personally, I want to shiv you with your own blade for what you did to Castiel, but that would be working against myself. We have a few questions for you, and you're going to answer, or we're going to flambé you with holy fire."

Raphael looked supremely untroubled. "What do you want to know?"

"Cas!" Sam called.

The sound of Castiel's appearance was lost in Raphael's cruel laughter. "Castiel," he said. "What can you possibly want from me?"

"Answers," Castiel replied.

Sam stepped back to stand beside Dean, letting Castiel hold the position of power ahead of them. Dean felt their tension like a sixth sense, and he was sure they were thinking of the last time they'd faced the archangel—when Castiel had been murdered.

"Where is God?" Castiel asked.

Raphael's eyes were mocking. "Don't you already know, Castiel? Surely you cannot be that ignorant."

Dean felt a flicker of hope. It sounded like Raphael knew more than they did. The hope that they might come out of this with an actual location made Dean's heart beat faster.

"He's dead," Raphael said with relish.

Dean saw Sam jerk at his side, as if he had been hit with an electric shock. Dean struggled to conceal his own reaction. If what Raphael said was true, they were lost. There was no one and nothing that could help them.

"He is not," Castiel said. "He cannot be."

"Really? If He is alive, where is He? The world is on the precipice of destruction, and He does nothing to help. No, Castiel, He cannot still alive be in the face of all this."

"Destruction you kick-started," Dean said angrily.

"Do you not see the abomination that stands beside you?" Raphael asked. "Your brother started the apocalypse when he killed Lilith. We merely set the scene; he took center stage and made it happen."

Sam glowered at him but didn't speak.

"If God is dead, who brought me back?" Castiel asked.

"Lucifer," Raphael said simply. "He knows you will help bring about the end now that you have allied yourself with the Winchesters."

"I don't believe it," Sam said.

Raphael ignored him as completely as if he hadn't spoken. "You're Fallen, Castiel. Even if God lived, He would not help you now. You belong to Lucifer."

"No," Castiel said a low voice.

Raphael looked up at the sky and smiled with satisfaction. Storm clouds were rolling overhead and it was starting to drizzle. Dean realized their mistake in trapping the angel outside at once.

"Cas!" he said forcefully.

"Flee, Castiel," Raphael said superiorly. "I will let you go this time. But try to trap me again, any of you, and I will flense the flesh from your bones."

Castiel turned to them and Dean saw the absolute devastation on his face for a moment before he swept them away.

* * *

One again, they were gathered in the kitchen of The Roadhouse. The bar was full of people now, so they couldn't speak freely in the open. Castiel stood against the counter while Dean and Sam sat at the table.

Dean was looking thoughtfully down at his clasped hands, thinking over what had happened. He wasn't sure he believed God was dead, but that might be just because he didn't _want_ to believe. If it was true, they were once again without hope.

As if Castiel had plucked the thought from his mind, he said, "It is not true."

Dean looked up. "It's not?"

Castiel shook his head. "It cannot be." He smiled slightly. "There is only one being capable of killing God, and that is Death."

"Death as in the horsemen Death?" Dean asked.

"Yes. He is the most powerful of the quartet. He is also trapped. The last time he roamed was in Noah's lifetime. He was trapped deep underground after the flood."

"God was still kicking around after that, right?" Sam said. "So… He literally _can't_ be dead?"

Castiel nodded approvingly. "Exactly. He lives. It's just…"

Dean sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. "We have no idea where He is, you know, living."

"So, we're just as screwed as we were this morning," Sam said.

Castiel didn't speak which was answer enough.

"No offence, Cas, but your dad is a dick," Sam growled. "Next time you see Him, tell Him I think so."

Castiel looked uncomfortable. "I have never seen Him."

Dean gaped. "You're kidding, right?"

Castiel shook his head. "Only a handful of angels have actually seen His face, and another speaks to Him."

Sam lurched to his feet. "You've never even _spoken_ to Him? You have to be kidding me! We're pinning all our hope on a dude that has never even gotten off His throne long enough to speak to His own damn angels?" He pushed back his hair from his face roughly. "This is freaking bullshit!"

"Sam," Dean said softly.

"No!" Sam snapped, rounding on him. "Don't you see, Dean, we're screwed. He's not going to help us. We don't have a chance of finding Him. Screw this!" He yanked open the door and marched out into the rain.

Dean watched him go, frowning. He wanted to follow, but he knew Sam was in no state to deal with his presence. He needed time to come to terms with what had happened and what it meant.

He turned to Castiel to apologize for what Sam had said, and he was shocked to see a small, speculative smile playing at the corners of Castiel's mouth.

"What?" he asked. "What, Cas?"

"I think I have an idea," Castiel said slowly. "We don't need to _find_ God; we just need to speak to Him. There's a problem though."

Dean held back a groan with effort. Of course there was. "Yeah?"

"The only angel that I know He speaks to doesn't leave Heaven. The only way to speak to him is _in_ Heaven."

"But you're banished," Dean said.

"Yes," Castiel agreed.

"Then how are we supposed to talk to this angel?"

Castiel looked annoyed. "I don't know. I cannot reach him. I need someone in Heaven."

"You need someone dead," Dean said. He would offer himself up—it wouldn't be forever after all—but he didn't have a ticket upstairs. Just because the angels had plucked him out of Hell, it didn't mean the contract that sent him to Hell in the first place wasn't still in effect. "Sorry, Cas," he said. "If there was a way, you know I'd be there, but…"

"I would never ask that of you. Heaven is to be your reward, not your day excursion."

"Hold up. You're saying I _am_ going upstairs?"

Castiel frowned. "Of course. You both are."

"Both of us?" Dean made no attempt to keep the awe from his voice.

"Yes, Dean," Castiel said patiently. "Sam has already been there, though of course he doesn't remember. A soul's worth is slated by actions of a lifetime, not a single mistake."

"But… my deal?"

"Was voided the moment I touched you in Hell. You will have Heaven, Dean."

Dean breathed out in a rush. They would have Heaven. When it was all over, they could have peace, not the blades and fire of Hell. Then something occurred to him and he winced. "You can't tell him."

"Sam?" Castiel asked.

"Yes. He can't know we're slated for Heaven."

"Don't you think it would give him peace of mind to know?"

"You can't tell him _yet_ ," he amended. "If Sam knows we need to speak to someone _in_ Heaven, and he's slated _for_ Heaven, he'll…"

"Be dead before the day is out," Castiel said.

"Exactly. I can't do it, Cas. I can't bear to lose him again. And Ellen, she's already so scared. She can't handle losing him again either."

"I won't tell him," Castiel said, nodding. "Though I think he should know."

"I'll tell him when it's the right time. As soon as we save the world, I will make sure he knows, I swear." He would give his brother the gift of that knowledge. He wouldn't leave him to be afraid.

"We need to find someone else with access to Heaven," Castiel said thoughtfully. "I need an angel."

"Cas, the last angel we met was the one that stabbed you in the neck. Anna is cut off from Heaven, too. Who can we ask?"

Castiel considered carefully for a moment, and then a wide smile spread across his features. "A friend."

* * *

When Sam had finally calmed himself enough that he could be in the presence of others, he went back to The Roadhouse and entered through the kitchen door. He came to a stop immediately and his voice rose. "What the hell are you doing?"

The kitchen table had been cleared and a bowl of herbs lay in the center. Around it were candles and a chalk circle with symbols. Whatever he had walked in on was clearly a spell of some kind.

Dean spun to look at him. "Easy, Sam. It's just a summoning spell. Totally safe."

"What are we summoning?" he asked.

"An angel."

Sam raked a hand over his face and said, "Okay, skimming over the fact the last angel we came into contact with was more than ready to 'flense the flesh from our bones', why do we want an angel?"

"I need to speak to him," Castiel replied.

"Cas had an idea," Dean said. "There's this angel that talks to God. We figured if we could get a message to him somehow, he could help us. Cas said he doesn't leave Heaven, so we need to get someone with Heavenly access to speak to him. He's got a friend he's going to ask."

"And how do we know this 'friend' is still Team Cas? You did Fall after all."

"He wouldn't deny me for that," Castiel said. "He would understand."

"What's his name?" Sam asked.

Castiel answered as he threw a burning match down onto the bowl of herbs. "Balthazar."

Flames roared up and died down quickly and a man appeared. Sam was used to angels dressing in suits and generally looking like constipated tax accountants, but this angel did not fit that mold. They way he held himself spoke of self-assurance and power, but not in the stick-up-the-ass way Uriel had personified.

His arrival had brought him face to face with Sam, and his eyes widened with recognition. "Oh. Not good," he said dully.

Sam was rather enjoying the angel's discomfort but Castiel called his name and the angel turned. "Castiel." His tone was inflectionless.

Castiel's expression was a mask and Sam saw his hand twitch, as if he was preparing to draw his blade. "Balthazar," he said solemnly.

Dean shifted from foot to foot and Sam walked around the table to stand with him. If this had been an epic mistake and the angel was going to attack, Sam was going to fight side by side with his brother.

"You brought me here, to _them_ ," Balthazar asked, jerking his chin at Sam and Dean.

"We need your help," Castiel said.

"You need someone's," he agreed. "What you were thinking summoning me here…" He shook his head dolefully. "I should kill you, you know."

Sam stepped forward, though what he could do to defend, he wasn't sure.

Balthazar looked amused. "Look at the little monkey. Thinks it's so strong."

"You touch him, I will find a way to kill you," Sam vowed.

Balthazar threw his head back and laughed. "I can see why you like them, Cas. They're quite amusing."

Castiel laid a hand on Sam's arm and said, "Balthazar, that is enough! Help or be banished."

Dean slammed the kitchen door closed and Sam saw a blood banishing sigil painted on the door. They had at least prepared.

"Why would I risk myself helping you?" Balthazar asked.

"You will help because you are indebted to me for millennia of sacrifice and saving."

Balthazar raised an eyebrow. "You're different, Castiel. You're almost human now. Is that what Falling does to you?"

"Are you helping us or not?" Sam asked truculently.

Balthazar narrowed his eyes at Sam for a moment and then he turned to Castiel. "You're right, I do owe you, but I have no desire to join you among the humans. What help I will give depends on what you need."

"We need to speak to Joshua," Castiel said in a rush. "I need you to get a message to him. He must come to Earth."

"Why not just send your marmoset?" he asked, gesturing to Dean. "He's got a return ticket courtesy of Michael and that way I don't have to risk _my_ neck."

"Dean is _not_ dying!" Sam growled stepping into Balthazar's space with his fists clenched. He might not be able to kill, but he could vent his fury by trying to break the angel's nose.

"Control your pet, Castiel," Balthazar said in a bored tone.

"Sam," Castiel said softly. "Dean is not dying. Balthazar will help us."

"I will?"

"You will," Castiel said confidently.

Balthazar pressed a hand to his forehead. "Fine. I'll help. Let it never be said I don't pay my debts."

"Thank you, Balthazar."

"Don't mention it. Ever in fact." He sighed. "I will speak to Joshua and _try_ to persuade him to speak with you. I make no guarantees." He glanced at Castiel. "I swear, Cas, if this comes back on me, I will make sure you go down first. Understand?"

"I understand," Castiel said serenely.

Balthazar disappeared and Dean breathed out in a rush. "Damn, Cas, that was intense. I thought he was a friend of yours."

"He is. That is why he's helping us."

Dean looked confused but Sam understood. Dean had good friends that would do whatever it took to help him. Sam had known more than his share of letdowns in his life, and he had been one more than once himself. Travis and Rick, for example, had died because he had let them down. He could only hope Balthazar wouldn't let Castiel down now.

* * *

Dean was worried. They were pinning their hopes on Castiel's friend coming though for them, and he hadn't seemed that good a friend to Dean. How were they to know he hadn't gone straight to Michael to tattle on Castiel? Anna had been slated to die for Falling, and Castiel had done more than that. He'd help Dean escape, pitting himself against the other angels in their quest for the apocalypse. There had to be a really big punishment waiting for him at the other end if they lost the fight.

They had been waiting for news for almost an hour after Balthazar's departure when Castiel suddenly stiffened.

"What?" Sam asked.

"Balthazar," Castiel said as explanation and greeting as the angel appeared beside him.

Sam scowled at the newcomer and Dean wished he'd tone it down a little. He didn't want to piss off their best hope at help.

"Well?" Sam asked.

Balthazar ignored him completely and spoke to Castiel. "Joshua has consented to speak to you. He is in Keukenhof Gardens."

"Thank you, Balthazar," Castiel said fervently.

"You can thank me by keeping me out of your problems in future," Balthazar said. "I will not come again." Without giving them a chance to answer, he disappeared.

"You know where these gardens are, Cas?" Sam asked.

"The Netherlands," Castiel said.

Dean exchanged a surprised glance with Sam and then they were being moved without their own impetus. When they came to a stop, Dean's senses were filled with beautiful colors, scents and sounds. There were flowers everywhere, and a pond with a running waterfall. Dean took it all in, awed, his attention only snapping to what mattered with Sam's voice.

"Are you Joshua?"

Dean's gaze followed Sam's and he saw a dark-skinned man smiling benevolently at them. He had to be approaching sixty, and his beard and hair were threaded with grey. Despite the fact he was dressed in an open collar shirt and casual jacket, he looked more like the kind of angel that Dean had imagined before he actually met one. There was just something about him that calmed and soothed Dean's ragged nerves.

"I am," he said.

Sam took a breath and Dean laid a hand on his arm. He wasn't sure what approach Sam was going to take with the angel—demands or anger maybe—but he doubted it would be the right one. Sam stayed quiet, and Dean spoke.

"I'm Dean Winchester."

"I know," Joshua said with a smile. "And I know what you want from me."

"Can you help us?" Sam asked.

Joshua smile faded as he shook his head. "I cannot. You are searching for God. I don't know where He is."

"You know something though," Dean guessed.

"I know He is on Earth.

"Okay, can you get a message to Him for us?" Sam asked.

"I can, but it will do no good," Joshua said. "In fact, I have a message for you. Back off."

Sam's eyebrows rose. "Excuse me?"

Joshua looked apologetic. "He knows already. Everything you want to tell Him. He knows what the angels are doing. He knows that the Apocalypse has begun. He just doesn't think it's His problem.

"Not His problem?" Dean asked, stunned.

"His kids are trying to end the damn world!" Sam said, his voice rising.

"I know," Joshua said. "But He will not intervene. He will not be found, magic amulet or not. He is done."

"He will not be moved?" Castiel asked.

"No. I am sorry. I know how much this matters to you all. There is no way of changing His mind, though. The answer is no."

Sam turned away and his hand came to his face. Dean wondered if he'd weakened to one of his rare moments of open emotion.

"What do we do then?" Dean asked desperately.

Joshua looked at him sadly. "I think you already know the answer to that, Dean. You do what you must to save as many as you can while you can."

Sam spun on his heel and glared at the angel. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Joshua didn't answer. With one more sympathetic look at them, he was gone.

* * *

 **So… Balthazar. I know he wasn't the angel we're accustomed to from S6, but at this point he is still loyal to Heaven and I figured that'd make him a little different. It's a shame though, as I love to write flouncy Balthy.**

 **Thank you all for the supportive reviews and PMs. I can't tell you how much it means to me to hear that you're all enjoying the story still.**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	12. Chapter 12

**Hugs and squishes to Jenjoremy for the fabulous beta job, and to Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2 for all the help getting the chapter outlined.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Twelve**_

The news that God wasn't going to help them changed each of them in different and devastating ways. As soon as he had delivered them back to The Roadhouse, Castiel disappeared and didn't come back. Dean didn't pray to him, as he understood how the angel felt. He had once been abandoned by his father, too. Though John had just left Dean behind, God had forsaken the world as a whole. Ellen reacted by clinging to them all desperately. She seemed to have given up all hope and her only method of dealing was to love them while she still could. Sam dealt with it the only way he knew how—by withdrawing into himself. He spent days in the corner of the bar, drinking whiskey and staring down into the depths of his glass. Sometimes Dean would sit with him, sharing the silence and wishing he knew the words to comfort.

After a week passed, Dean realized he needed to do more than offer helpless comfort to the people he loved. He needed to help other people, too. He woke the next morning with renewed vigor and went straight to the laptop to begin his search. When Sam came into the room, he saw what Dean was doing, but other than raising an eyebrow, he didn't comment.

He was sitting and sipping coffee in silence when Dean came across something that looked hopeful. There had been a spate of unusual deaths in the Nebraska City area. With Ash's help, he found the PD files and autopsy reports. By the time he had printed out the pertinent evidence of something hinky, Sam had set himself up in the bar with a bottle. Dean went to sit with him and said, "I've found us something."

Sam looked up slowly and Dean tried not to react to the expression of defeat he wore. "What?" he asked tonelessly.

Dean slid the printouts across the table to him. "A hunt."

Sam glanced down at the autopsy photo on top and shrugged. "What's the point?"

"The point? Saving people, Sam. I think there are vampires in the city. People are dying."

"Everyone is dying, Dean," Sam said disinterestedly. "The world is going to burn."

Dean leaned over the table and gripped Sam's wrist hard. "Not if we keep saying no."

"You really believe that?" Sam asked, sounding only mildly interested in the answer.

"Yes," Dean said firmly. "I do."

Sam looked down at his drink again and said, "You need this, don't you?"

Dean thought Sam needed it more, but he knew that Sam would be more amenable to helping if he thought this was about giving Dean what he needed instead of the other way around. Sam usually gave Dean what he needed.

"Yes."

Sam pushed aside his glass and pulled the papers over to him. He flipped through them for a minute and then set them down again. "It's not vampires."

"It's not?"

He shook his head. "No bite marks. I think it's a djinn. The location matches up to what I know about them. The bodies have been found in dumpsters in the industrial district, right? That's not usually vampire territory. It's djinns'"

Feeling a little stupid, Dean said, "So we're taking it?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. We'll take it." He stood and carried his bottle and glass to the bar. He set in down and nodded to Ellen who was cleaning the taps. "We're heading out," he explained.

"Where to?" Ellen asked anxiously.

"The city. We won't be gone long."

"You'll be careful." It wasn't a question; it was a command.

"I always am," Sam said, turning away and walking through the door to the back.

Ellen shook her head. "No," she said quietly. "You're not."

"Don't worry," Dean reassured her. "I'll take care of him."

She smiled sadly. "I know you will, honey."

It was only a matter of hours later that Dean had to admit that he had failed not only Sam but Ellen, too.

* * *

Sam had drunk enough whiskey to be unsafe to drive, so Dean took the wheel while Sam stared moodily out the window. Dean had hoped that doing something other than sitting in the bar drinking would make a difference in Sam, but he had been wrong. The location changed, but the oppressive mood didn't.

Even though they were only an hour out of The Roadhouse, they checked into a motel when they reached the city to give them a base to work from. Sam set up the laptop at once and started searching maps for the location of the discovered bodies while Dean made a trip to a butcher to get the lamb's blood. He got back to the motel to find Sam sharpening a hunting knife. There was another in a sheaf beside him. He looked up at Dean and said, "Get it?"

Dean held up the paper sack and nodded.

"Good. I figure we wait till dark and then head out. We'll be less likely to be seen if we go in at night. There will be fewer people around."

He turned his attention back to the knife he was sharpening. Dean sat on the chair opposite him and just watched, mesmerized by the action of the whetstone sliding along the blade with a zip-zip sound. It brought back memories of the times he had seen his father doing the same thing. He had worn the same concentrated expression Sam wore now. Thoughts of his father made him sad. He wished he was there still, advising and helping them. Though perhaps it was better he wasn't. Bobby had said Sam needed him for blame, but Dean knew better. John Winchester's blame would break Sam even further than he already was. Their father might not understand that Sam was striving for salvation when he destroyed.

His mind drifted to Ruby. He had been consciously blocking thoughts of her since she had been killed by Castiel, but now he let himself remember and feel his own culpability in what had happened. He had been the one to bring her into their lives. If he had sent her away the moment he realized what she was, as Sam had wanted him to, she would never have gotten her claws into Sam. There would have been no demon blood, no psychic powers. Sam would never have delved into that part of himself and Lilith could never have been killed. The world would not be careening toward its end. Sam would not be carrying the fate of humanity on his already burdened shoulders. Dean felt the need to apologize for his part in it, but he knew Sam would never accept it. All that would happen would be that it remind him of what had happened—as if that could ever really leave his thoughts.

"You okay?" Sam asked, and Dean dragged himself out of his distraction to nod.

"Yeah, fine."

Sam eyed him for a moment and then turned his attention back to the knife.

* * *

There was no feeling of impending doom as they approached the warehouse. Dean was almost excited about the hunt. The adrenaline was buzzing through his veins and he felt ready. He had no idea of what was to come.

They parked the Impala in an old lot a couple of blocks away from the warehouse they suspected the djinn was in so as not to arouse the suspicion of anyone passing. There were still working factories in the area and the last thing they wanted was someone investigating their presence.

Sam took the lead into the warehouse, Dean close behind him, bloodied knife gripped tightly in his hand. They came into a cavernous room and looked around. The only light came from streetlight through windows set high on the walls, and it was hard to see anything. Sam pulled his cell phone from his pocket and turned it so the lit screen illuminated the room. Dean saw the footprints in the dirty floor at once, leading to and away from a door on the other side of the room.

"See that?" Sam asked.

"Yeah."

They walked side by side across to the door on the opposite side of the room on hunter's feet. Dean could hear Sam's shallow breaths in the quiet and wondered if he was thinking of the last time he had come up against a djinn, or perhaps he was thinking of the factory shooting. Whichever it was, he was obviously not comfortable. Dean wanted to say something to reassure, but no words came to him that didn't seem pointless; Sam didn't accept reassurance easily.

The door creaked as it opened, and Dean held his breath, almost certain the djinn was going to attack at any moment. Nothing happened though, and after a moment, Sam started down the stairs in front of them, holding his phone in front of him to light the way.

Dean was expecting to see the djinn when they reached the small room at the bottom of the stairs, but there was no sign of it. There was no victim either. His senses alert and ready, he heard the shock and strain in Sam's voice as he suddenly called Dean's name. At almost the same moment Sam spoke, Dean felt a sharp pain as something collided with the back of his head. His legs crumpled and he fell to the floor.

Sam started toward him and then froze in place, his eyes widening with horror. Two people stepped out of the corners of the room, black eyes fixed on him and wide smiled curving their mouths. They didn't seem to be what was scaring Sam though. His gaze was directed behind Dean. With immense effort, Dean turned and saw a man standing behind him. He was unremarkable looking except for the power he radiated. Dean didn't need Sam's exclamation of the name to tell him who he was.

"Lucifer!"

"Sam," Lucifer said, almost fondly.

Dean struggled to his feet, planning to throw himself between Sam and the archangel as if that could help, but at that moment something cracked him around the head again and he fell forward, his cheek hitting the floor as consciousness left him. His last garbled words were, "Run, Sam."

* * *

"Dean!" Sam shouted as he made for his unconscious brother. His only fear in that moment was that Lucifer wasn't there for him but for Dean. He could handle anything but that. He couldn't lose him. His thoughts were a rush of, _'Not him, no, no, please not Dean.'_

Arms caught him around the chest and held him back. He was so overcome with worry for his brother that he didn't even think to hurt or exorcise the demon holding him. He just struggled pointlessly.

Lucifer smiled benevolently. "Don't worry, Sam," he said. "Dean will be just fine. I will even fix his fractured skull as a gesture of good will." He bent and pressed two fingers to Dean's temple. Dean's eyes rolled and he moaned Sam's name, but Lucifer shook his head. "Not yet." He touched Dean again and Dean stilled.

Lucifer stepped over Dean and walked towards Sam. "It's good to see you again, face to face as it were. We have a lot to talk about."

"No!" Sam growled.

Lucifer tilted his head to the side. "I haven't asked a question yet."

"No," Sam said again.

Lucifer looked amused. "Yes, Sam. Before I am finished with you, it will be yes."

"Never."

"Soon," Lucifer replied.

Sam ignored him and fixed his eyes on Dean, watching his steady breaths move his back, finding comfort in the movement despite the dire situation.

"I can see you're distracted," Lucifer said, sounding annoyed now. "Let's go somewhere a little more equipped for our needs."

"I'm going nowhere with you," Sam snarled.

Lucifer laughed softly. "I am sorry, Sam, but you really don't have a choice."

Sam struggled but the hands holding him were strong and Lucifer was reaching for him. With a cool touch to his forehead, Lucifer sent Sam into unnatural sleep.

* * *

When Sam woke, he was blinded for a moment. His eyes quickly adjusted and he saw he was in a large room with a spotlight trained on him. He felt tightness around him and he looked down to see leather straps around his torso. Attempts at movement told him his ankles were bound too. His arms were out at his sides and held in place. He looked to them and saw the edges of what looked like a cast iron pentagram, similar to the one he had once seen Alastair bound to.

Behind the light, amused voices spoke observations that he was awake at last. A woman stepped toward him, her back lit seraph-like but her black eyes betraying what she truly was. She was dressed in purple and black and her smile was wide. "Sammy Winchester," she said cheerfully. "It's been a while."

Sam didn't recognize her, but he had suspicion of who she was which was confirmed as she brought a hand to his throat and ran a finger over the silver scar. "Some of my best work right there."

"Meg," Sam growled.

"Hey! Good to see you awake again. Last time you were too busy being brain-dead to chat."

Sam had suspected for a while that she was the demon that had tried to kill him when he was in the hospital after Samhain. He hated her more than ever for what she had done, putting Dean through that.

Smiling smugly, Sam reached for her core and squeezed his hand into a fist. Something was wrong though. The power he always felt when doing it didn't come. He strained against the block but it was like pushing against a brick wall. No matter how hard he tried, nothing happened.

Meg laughed. "No, no, Sammy. No exorcising for you."

"What have you done to me?"

"Not me," she said. "This is all down to Lucifer. See, we knew you'd be a pain in the ass exorcising your guards, so he cooked up something special. You're warded." She traced a finger over the leather that held him and he saw it was etched with unfamiliar symbols. "Clever, right?"

Sam glared at her, impotent and enraged.

"Yep," she said, "the boss is a genius."

"He's a monster," Sam growled. "Just like you."

"Oh, no, he's not like me. He is a master and I am his devoted."

"Just like you were for Yellow-Eyes, right? Remember what I did to him? I am going to make it so much worse for your new boss."

She laughed cruelly. "You wish. You're going to be his meat suit. He's going to take you over and the world will burn."

"Never going to happen."

"Oh, it will," a voice said from behind the light. Lucifer was back. He stepped into view and Sam looked into the face of the being he hated.

"What did you do to Dean?" he asked at once.

"Nothing," Lucifer said. Sam looked doubtful and Lucifer went on. "I promise you Dean is fine. I am not lying. I will _never_ lie to you, Sam. You and I are above deception."

"Sure," Sam said. "You're as honest as the day is long."

"To you I am," he said. "Always."

Sam shook his head. He knew what Lucifer was trying to do and he wouldn't be fooled. He hoped, though, that in this instance that Lucifer was telling the truth. Dean had to be okay.

"You misunderstand me, Sam," Lucifer said. "I am not the villain."

Sam scoffed. "Sure you're not."

"I'm not." He sighed. "Do you know the story of my Fall?"

"I'm familiar with it," Sam said.

"Then you know the crimes I am accused of are nothing compared to my punishment."

"Yeah?" Sam said sardonically. "You made Lilith because you were lonely, right?"

"I _was_ lonely. I had lived among my brothers for eons and then I was cast out. You know why?"

"You rebelled," Sam said.

"No, I refused to bow to insignificant beings. My Father created your kind, you… abominations of His power, and He asked us to place you higher than Him. I would not do it. I loved my Father. I loved Him too much. You can relate, I am sure. You loved your father, too."

Sam didn't speak. He would not discuss John Winchester with this thing.

"In some ways your father was better than mine," Lucifer said grudgingly. "He loved you enough to save you. Mine cast me out for refusing to obey a flawed command." He shook his head sadly.

"Yeah, he's a deadbeat," Sam said. "I learned that the hard way recently."

"Yes?" Lucifer asked. "How did he disappoint you?" He considered for a moment. "Ah, I see. You thought He would clear up your mess? No, Sam, He will not rouse himself for this fight. He has forsaken the world as easily as He forsook me."

Sam stared him in the eye, hazel meeting blue, and he tried to put all his loathing and fury into his glare. "Do what you came to do," he said. "I am done talking."

Lucifer shook his head, looking sad. "I didn't want it to come to this, you know. I hoped I would be able to speak to you reasonably. You are too full of anger and hatred though. I understand it. You have been ruined by the life you have lived. I am sorry for this, Sam, I truly am, but you have left me no choice." He turned to Meg. "Do what must be done."

Meg smiled gleefully. "Thank you."

Lucifer looked at Sam one more time, and then disappeared with a flutter on the air.

Meg looked at Sam and smiled cruelly as she extracted a wickedly sharp looking knife from her pocket. "You're mine, Winchester."

Sam didn't make a sound, not even when she pressed the knife to his chest and drew it down, cutting through his skin like it was wet tissue paper. He merely closed his eyes and tried to block out the pain and Meg's laughter. He would not give her the satisfaction of reacting. He would hold out until Dean came, because he would. Sam trusted in his brother to save him.

* * *

"Ellen!"

The sound of her name being bellowed ripped her from sleep and she bolted upright. For a moment, she wasn't sure if she had imagined it or not, then the shout came again and she knew it was real. She lurched to her feet and ran toward the voice on bare feet. She came into the bar and saw Dean standing in the center of the room. His hands were in his hair, tugging on the strands, and his eyes were wild with panic. Ellen felt her heart clench in response. He was alone.

"Ellen!" he shouted her name, turning on his heel, as if he hadn't even registered her presence in the room.

"I'm here." She grabbed his shoulders and shook him roughly. "What's happened?"

Dean's wide eyes fixed on her, his pupils dilated, and he started to babble, "It was a trap. I didn't know. _We_ didn't know. We thought it was a djinn, but when we got there they were waiting for us."

"Where's Sam?" she asked desperately, though she thought she already knew the answer.

"They knocked me out," he went on in a rush of words. "I couldn't do anything. When I woke up, I was alone. They were gone. _He_ was gone. I looked, but there was nothing. I don't know where they've taken him."

Ellen's knees felt weak. She swayed and a hand steadied her. She glanced to the side to see Ash beside her. She hadn't even registered his arrival, or Jo's, as she now saw her walking toward Dean and pulling him into a hug.

Dean's arms remained limp at his sides, and after a moment, Jo released him. "He's gone," Dean said weakly.

Ellen marshaled herself and shook her head briskly, shaking away the oppressive panic that was trying to overwhelm her. "Who was it?" she asked.

Dean just stared down at the floor, his mouth moving but no discernible words audible.

"Dean!" she snapped, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him again. "Who took him?"

"Demons," Dean said quietly, his eyes rising to meet hers. "Demons and Lucifer."

She gripped his shoulders tighter to support herself as the horror settled over her. Tears burned in her eyes and slid down her cheeks when she blinked. "No!"

"Yes," Dean said.

Ellen fell forward and Dean caught her in his arms. Her head fell onto his shoulder and she quickly dampened his shirt with her tears. Dean shushed her and cradled the back of her head in his hand as she fell apart. She hadn't felt this measure of grief since the day she said goodbye to Sam as he lay on that dirty bed in a cabin in Wyoming after he had shot himself to rid them all of Yellow-Eyes. After she had left with Bobby, she had managed a few miles before losing control completely. Bobby, practically a stranger to her then, had held her as she cried for her boy, just like Dean was now.

Sam was dead. No, dead would have been better; death would have given him peace. With Lucifer, Sam would have no peace. He was gone and he hadn't said goodbye. "He promised," she choked.

"He had no choice," Dean said in a strained voice. Her absolute devastation seemed to have strengthened him. He was calmer now, in control, while she felt every atom of her world being torn apart.

"Here, Mom," Jo said. Ellen straightened to see Jo proffering a glass of amber whiskey. Ellen took it from her and took a slug, feeling the burn as it hit her throat.

"What are we going to do?" Jo asked. "How do we get him back?"

Ellen looked at her daughter and a wave of helplessness swept through her. She didn't have an answer to give. Not even Sam would know what to do in this situation if it was one of them that was gone, and he was the best of them. The truth was there was nothing they could do until they had a way to end Lucifer, and they hadn't discovered a way to do that yet.

When no one answered, Jo's voice became strident. "What are we going to do?"

"I don't know, Jo," Dean said sadly. He reached for her but she stepped back, out of his reach.

"You can't give up!" she said, her voice rising. "Where's Castiel? He has to help us!"

"I don't know," Dean admitted. "I called him but he didn't come."

Anger rushed through Ellen. "The hell with that," she said. "He owes us." He was part of the reason the world was burning. He and his brothers had set the world up to fall. He could have helped stop Sam killing Lilith if he'd came to their side sooner. He'd known what would happen, but he hadn't stepped in till the last moment, when it was too late. She raised her eyes and voice. "Castiel!"

There was no answering voice, no flutter of wings. The room remained devoid of angels.

Dean cursed and raised his own voice to join Ellen's plea. "Cas, we need you! Sam needs you." His voice broke. "Lucifer has him."

"Lucifer has Sam?" The voice came from behind them. Ellen spun and saw Castiel standing in the doorway to the living quarters. The angel radiated defeat. She would have been concerned for him in any other instance had it not been for Sam's fate. She didn't care that the angel was hurting; she only cared for her son.

"They tricked us and he took him," Dean said.

Castiel looked desolate. "Then it is over."

"No!" Jo said harshly. "It's not. We're getting him back."

"How?" Castiel asked, his tone gentler than Ellen had ever heard from him. "We cannot fight Lucifer. Gabriel will not help us. God has refused us. We're without a weapon or way."

"But it's Sam," Jo said plaintively.

"Yes," Castiel agreed, "Lucifer's vessel. If he has Sam, it's only a matter of time before the end."

"No," Ellen growled. "Sam will never say yes. He will be strong."

Castiel nodded slowly. "Sam is perhaps one of the strongest people I have ever known, but man can only take so much. Sooner or later, he will break and say yes. Michael will take Dean, and from there the battle will commence."

" _I_ will never say yes," Dean vowed. There was no doubt in his tone.

Castiel looked at him sympathetically. "Man can only take so much, Dean."

"You're wrong," Ellen said. ""My boys are strong. They won't give in."

She was certain of it. Sam would sooner die a thousand deaths than say yes to Lucifer. He would be strong until they got him back. And they would. They had to.

* * *

 **So… Some dark stuff coming up now. Stay tuned for more.**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	13. Chapter 13

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy for working your magic on this chapter. You're the absolute best. Thank you also Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2 for all the ass kicking and help. This story wouldn't exist without these three ladies.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Thirteen**_

The only way to mark the passing of days was the cycle of the sun and moon through the skylight set into the slanted ceiling. Though he sometimes lost track of time, Sam thought it had been nine days since he had been taken. It was dusk now, which meant Lucifer was due for a visit again. Sam wasn't sure whether to be anxious for his arrival or relieved. When he came, he would heal Sam's wounds, though he didn't remove the scars that marred his skin. His body, already a map of the hunts and injuries he had taken, was more marked than ever. The most marred was his bare chest, as that was the easiest place for Meg to attack, but she wasn't averse to hurting his arms and hands, too. His fingers were currently crooked and useless from where she had snapped the bones one by one.

 _He_ hadn't broken though.

He tried to hide the sounds of his pain, to keep the little pride he had left, but she often drew groans and cries from him against his will. The fact that he was a Winchester was only effective to a certain degree when faced with this kind of cruelty, but he still hadn't broken. He would not break because people were relying on him to stay strong.

In the days since he had been taken, Sam had not been fed or given a drink. He guessed Lucifer had the same ability to sustain him without that Culpa had. He was glad of it in a way, even though his throat was parched and his stomach ached with hunger, because it meant he wouldn't be forced to soil himself in front of the demons. He had so little left to him that even this small dignity was cherished.

Meg had left him for a while, which should have been a relief, but Sam had learned quickly that the anticipation of pain was almost worse than pain itself. At least when he was being cut into with sharp knives, he knew what to expect. It was trying to prepare himself for that which made him feel like the knives were already there.

The door creaked open and he braced himself for whichever one might enter: Lucifer or Meg. Neither was better than the other. Meg hurt him physically; Lucifer hurt him mentally. The archangel addressed Sam as if they were family, brothers, and that made Sam sick. He had one brother, one family that he loved. Lucifer repulsed him.

After he healed Sam—his touch gentle, almost a caress—he would talk for hours. He would tell Sam stories of his time in Heaven with his Father and the other archangels. He spoke about how it felt to be cast out in detail. He made sure to draw the parallels with what had happened to Dean. Sam knew he was trying to forge some kind of understanding between them, but it was futile. Dean's story was nothing like Lucifer's. John left Dean so that he could have a better life. He set him free because he loved him. Dean took that freedom and created life and hope for others. Lucifer created demons. One was a hero. One was a monster. Sam would never let himself forget that.

A figure stepped around the light that burned at all hours and Sam shuddered as he recognized Lucifer.

"Hello, Sam," he said softly. "How are you?"

"Peachy," Sam said. "Meg's been a great hostess."

Lucifer's lips turned down in a charade of sadness. "I hate that it has to be like this. I wish you would accept that there is only one way this will end and save yourself the pain. Let me in and I will wipe away all that pain, all those cares that drag you down."

"No."

Lucifer shook his slowly. "You're only hurting yourself, Sam."

Sam looked past him into the light. It became obstructed as Lucifer walked towards him and laid a hand on Sam's cheek. Sam felt the burn as his wounds knitted themselves together again and his broken fingers mended. The burn was nothing compared to the feeling of Lucifer's cold touch. It felt intimate. He was grateful when Lucifer stepped back, but also annoyed as he realized the story time part of Lucifer's visit was to come.

"I have news for you," he said.

Surprised by the change in their routine, Sam looked at him.

"Dean."

Sam stiffened. "You stay the _hell_ away from him!"

"I have not seen Dean since I took you," he said, his tone seemingly designed to reassure. "But someone else has."

Sam felt a thrill of fear as he asked, "Who?"

"My brother."

For a moment, Sam thought he meant Gabriel, and though that wasn't the best news, it wasn't all bad. Gabriel had shown them in the past he wouldn't hurt them physically, and Dean was strong enough to take whatever psychological crap was thrown at him. The news that Gabriel had seen him meant that Dean was alive and well enough for the archangel's ends.

His relief transferred itself into a smile that Lucifer saw. He shook his head slowly and a frown creased his brow; he looked almost reluctant as he said, "Michael, Sam."

Sam sucked in a sharp breath and his vision swam. Without means to cover his face to hide his horror, he bowed his head and squeezed his eyes shut. Lucifer carried on speaking. "I understand that he found Dean at the place I took you. Your brother must have returned to search for you."

Sam shook his head and moaned, "No."

"Yes," Lucifer said simply.

Sam looked up into his eyes, searching for a sign of a lie. There was none. Lucifer looked sad but there was no deceit that Sam could see. Of course, the devil was a masterful actor, but in this Sam believed him. He drew in a deep, steadying breath and tried to gain control of his emotions.

"He won't say yes," Sam said, forcing confidence into his voice. "Dean's strong."

"Man can only take so much, Sam. Michael is cruel. He _wants_ the battle, you know that. There is nothing he won't do to achieve his ends, and he is so much more imaginative than Alastair ever was, and you know how Dean broke for him. No, Sam, I'm sorry, but your brother will say yes, and soon. You should hope that he does because the sooner he gives in, the less he will suffer."

A tear escaped Sam's eye. Unable to wipe it away, it trailed down his face until Lucifer's cold finger came up to catch it. He brought the droplet up to his eye to examine it curiously. "I truly am sorry, Sam," he said.

Sam just shook his head in response. He didn't believe Lucifer was sorry at all. This was a victory for him. Dean was taken, and even now he was surely hurting. And there was nothing Sam could do. He was trapped. Dean was on his own. They both were.

* * *

That night Sam dreamed. He was in a sumptuously decorated room with cream walls and gold trim. It was a beautiful room, but the scene inside was horrific. Dean was spread-eagled on a marble topped table, his wrists and ankles encircled by thick rope. When he caught sight of Sam standing horrified beside him, he looked up into his eyes and moaned, "Help me, Sam. Please, you have to help me."

* * *

Like all humans, Sam Winchester was flawed, weak. His weaknesses were greater perhaps than other humans because he himself was greater. Could Lucifer's destined vessel be anything but? Whereas other humans had vices such as alcohol and drugs, Sam had demon blood, not that his dependence on alcohol was healthy according to Meg. But it was the demon blood that gave Lucifer the crux he needed for his plan. He was banking everything on Sam's addiction being strong and his spirit weak.

Like all archangels, Lucifer had a certain degree of omniscience. He had recognized the potential in Sam when he'd first set eyes on him, when he had been nothing more than incorporeal grace. Sam had been wide-eyed with horror, clinging to his brother as Lucifer poured up and out of the floor. Though he'd only gotten a glimpse before Castiel took the Winchesters away, Lucifer had seen the wonderful weakness he could exploit. The blood. Had Sam not attempted to free himself from his fate by killing himself, he would have remained caught in the claws of addiction. He would have been brought so low that he would have given up anything and everything to feed on the poison.

It was that man Lucifer needed now. He needed Sam so broken that his only option was to say yes to escape the horror of that existence. Lucifer would make his promises, sharing instead of overpowering, providing a constant flow of blood to sustain them both. Lucifer would lie. Sam would believe. They would be one.

He thought he would wait perhaps a few more days. Allow Meg to continue breaking him down to nothing so that Lucifer could step in to heal and soothe. Then he would introduce temptation. From there, it would not take long.

There was movement at the door, and Lucifer looked up. Meg hesitated on the threshold, her lip caught between her teeth in an uncharacteristic show of nerves.

"What is it?" Lucifer asked.

"There has been an… accident," she said tentatively.

Lucifer raised an eyebrow in question.

"I may have got a little overexcited," she said. "I think… I know… Sam Winchester is dead."

Lucifer felt a thrill of annoyance flicker through him. It wouldn't take much to bring him back of course, but the thought of Sam Winchester in Heaven—the home Lucifer could never return to—aggravated him. It just wasn't right. Though Lucifer thought perhaps he could work the situation to his advantage. Lucifer wasn't the only one that wanted the vessels to consent. Most of Heaven was supporting the cause, and those that weren't were staying silent.

"I'm sorry," Meg said. "I didn't mean to."

"I'm sure you didn't," Lucifer said, walking towards her and cupping her cheek in his hand. "My dear, devoted Meg, you can do something else for me now. I want you to gather as many of your kind as you can, and find a place to… enjoy. Pick a town, a city if you like, and let your imagination run wild. I want death and destruction, do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir," she said sycophantically.

"Oh, and Meg, be certain that it will make the headlines."

She nodded and a cruel smile crept over her lips.

Lucifer watched her leave, her excitement barely concealed, and he smiled. She was his most devoted and obedient. She would be the last to be destroyed.

Alone now, Lucifer decided to visit with the corpse of his vessel. He walked into the large room they kept him in and stepped around the light to get a clear view. Sam Winchester hung limply on the rack, his chin touching his chest. Lucifer stopped in front of him and lifted his face roughly by pulling a hank of his hair.

His lips were blue and his skin ashy. He glanced down at Sam's bloodied and ruined body and saw, through the demented art of Meg's blade, the injury that had gone too deep. She had cut too close on his neck, slicing through something vital.

"Are you hurting yet, Sam Winchester?" Lucifer asked. "Have they got you on a new rack in view of the people you love?" He dropped his hand back to his side and Sam's head fell forward again. "I hope so. I hope they are making you feel everything I cannot."

He wiped his hand on the leg of his jeans and stepped back. He thought he would stay here a while, just enjoying the view.

* * *

Sam was sitting in the bar of The Roadhouse at his usual table. There was a glass of whiskey in his hand and the jukebox was playing an old Rolling Stones classic. He picked up his drink and swirled the liquid against the glass before taking a sip. It was smooth, Ellen's good stock, and he enjoyed the sensation as it warmed his throat. He was alone, but somehow he knew people would come eventually.

An indeterminable amount of time later, the bar door opened and a man walked in. Of all the people Sam had anticipated seeing in this dream, Zachariah was the very last he could have expected. Sam jumped to his feet and reached into the back of his pants for a weapon. He couldn't kill the angel in a dream or awake, but he would get a lot of pleasure out of shooting him in the face.

There was no weapon there though. He could do nothing but watch as Zachariah stalked towards him, smug smile in place and eyes narrowed with hatred. Sam glared back. He detested this angel almost as much as he did the archangels.

"Winchester," Zachariah said. "I'd say I'm pleased to see you again, but that would be a vicious lie. The fact you are _here_ is an affront of the highest order."

"I was going to say the same thing," Sam replied. "I don't want you tip-toeing through my dreams either."

"Dreams?" Zachariah laughed harshly. "You stunted ape. This is not your head, boy, this is Heaven. And the fact that you're here at all makes me want to vomit. That they decided an abomination like you should be allowed through the gates beggars belief."

Sam's mind reeled. Heaven! He was in Heaven! What kind of twisted joke was that? Was he here to get a glimpse at what could have been before being given an express ticket downstairs? He surely couldn't be slated for this place after all he'd done.

Zachariah glanced around the room, looking disgusted. "It makes sense that _this_ is your heaven though. Where else would an alcoholic waster end up but in a dingy bar?"

"Screw you," Sam growled. The Roadhouse was the closest thing to a home he had ever known, even more so since Dean came back into his life. This was where they headed at the end of a long day. Perhaps it was really home now.

Zachariah glowered at him. "Watch your mouth. I am an angel."

"You're a dick," Sam corrected.

Zachariah seemed to swell with rage. The fact that he apparently expected respect from Sam after everything was laughable. With one exception, and Castiel had started out just as bad, all angels were dicks with wings. They didn't deserve any semblance of respect. They deserved holy fire showers.

"You know, I was going to go easy on you," Zachariah said. "I thought with what was happening to you already, I would be able to break you with a few strokes of the knife, but I think I'm bringing out the big guns now." He raised his voice and chanted something in Enochian. The door opened again and a man came into the bar. He was dressed in black, but rather than the usual semi-formal attire angels seemed to prefer, he was wearing jeans and a close fitting t-shirt under a leather jacket. His expression was grim and his dark eyes bored into Sam. "Thaddeus," Zachariah said, "this is Sam Winchester. I want you to show him why it is not a good idea to insult me."

The man nodded. "It will be my pleasure."

Sam felt himself being swept back against the wall by an unseen force and his arms spread at his sides. Though no ropes or chains held him, he was unable to move an inch. There was no way to defend himself as the angel stalked towards him, drawing an angel blade.

Within moments, Sam was crying out in pain. His last coherent thought was that Meg was an amateur compared to Thaddeus.

* * *

At no point in his existence had Castiel been intentionally cruel. He had tried to be what his Father created before the mantle of warrior was placed upon him—an angel. Somehow morality had become lost over the millennia as difficult choices were made. He had stood at Uriel's side as cities had been leveled. He had killed in the name of The Lord. He had punished. He had been a soldier of God. But he had always tried not to be cruel.

In keeping his silence now, he was trying not to be cruel.

Sam had been gone two weeks, and the inhabitants of The Roadhouse despaired. Dean had been strong at first, arguing that his brother wouldn't break, and though his belief was sustained as Sam had not yet given himself over to Lucifer, his spirit flagged. Every day that passed without news of Lucifer attaining his vessel was another day of Sam's suffering, of which they were all acutely aware. Dean himself, having suffered decades under the blades of Hell, had insight into what Sam was suffering, and that combined with his devotion to his brother made the situation so much harder for him. The others could only imagine that kind of suffering.

The best chance they had for information about Sam giving consent was Castiel's tentative connection to his former family through angel radio, so Castiel listened hard. While the others stood behind Ash as he tried and failed to find clues to Sam and Lucifer's whereabouts on his computer, Castiel stood in the corner and absorbed the voices of the angels, waiting for their triumphant cries of their first success in bringing about the end.

It was through their voices that he heard the news that cut him to the quick. _"Sam Winchester is dead."_

He was alone in the room as it was very early in the morning, and so had no reason to hide his reaction. He moaned Sam's name in lament. He could take no comfort in Sam's demise being an end—albeit temporary—to his suffering, as he knew Heaven's blades could slice deeply and recklessly, too.

He closed his eyes and shook his head, trying impossibly not to think of what his friend was suffering now.

"Cas, you okay?" Dean asked.

Castiel jerked and looked to see him standing in the doorway. He was a wreck of a man, pale skin and ringed eyes that held no life. He came deeper into the room and looked closely at Castiel.

"What's happened?" he asked fervently. "Has Sammy…?"

Castiel shook his head. "No, he has not given in." He could say that without lying. "The voices are just being particularly triumphant at the moment and I find it hard to listen to them." An evasion but not a lie. "Why are you awake?" he asked. Was the connection between the brothers, deeper than any Castiel had ever seen, so great Dean could sense over whatever distance there was that Sam had fallen?

Dean shrugged. "Just couldn't sleep anymore." He cast his eyes downward. "Dreams."

"Of Sam?"

For a moment Dean didn't answer, and Castiel thought he wouldn't, but then he drew a breath and said in a broken voice, "I see them hurting him. I see it all the time. When I'm awake I'm imagining it, and when I sleep I dream it."

Castiel thought he would have nightmares had he the ability to dream. He also saw much when he was awake. "I could help you sleep without dreams," he offered.

"No," Dean said quickly, and then looked apologetic. "It's okay, Cas. I'll be fine. Dreams are the least of what I deserve."

"You did nothing wrong, Dean," Castiel said. "No one could have protected Sam when Lucifer arrived, not even me."

"I wanted to take the hunt, though. I was the one that made him go. It was a trap, and I didn't know."

"Exactly, you didn't know."

"Doesn't make Sam any more here, though, does it?" Dean asked. "No, it's on me this time. Sam's with Lucifer because I wanted to be a damn hero."

Perhaps there was some part of that which was true. Castiel wasn't going to examine his thoughts to decide. His mind was preoccupied in hiding his devastation from Dean, because Sam wasn't with Lucifer now. He was dead.

* * *

Lucifer left Sam dead for a day before deciding he'd suffered enough at the other angels' hands. It was his turn again.

The time Sam had been dead had not not spent inactively though. Lucifer had prepared for his return. The spotlight that Meg had requested during the preparations for Sam's capture was moved to the side and a TV was set up in its place. The light that had been used to disrupt Sam's rest and to make sure he was able to fully appreciate the damage Meg was doing had been effective, but the news channels would be even more so. Meg and her cronies had been busy and the stations were starting to report the stories of the devastation and death he had requested.

He checked the room once more, satisfied it was ready, and then reached for Sam. It was a simple matter of siphoning the soul back into the vessel. Within a moment, Sam Winchester's chest was heaving for breath and his eyes were roving the room. "Dean?" he gasped.

"Not here," Lucifer replied coldly.

Sam's eyes settled on Lucifer and his expression slackened. "You."

"Me," Lucifer agreed. "I know you've been through a lot, dying and all, but you and I need to talk seriously, Sam."

"As opposed to the light-hearted chatting we've been doing?" Sam asked, his tone defeated despite his easy words.

"Michael has taken Dean," Lucifer said.

"So you said."

"No, I mean Michael has _taken_ Dean. Your brother gave consent and allowed Michael entry."

Sam's head bowed and he drew a noisy breath. He released it slowly and then looked up, staring Lucifer in the eyes. "Why should I believe you?"

"Because I am telling the truth," Lucifer said mildly. "I warned you, Sam, man can only take so much. Dean was held for weeks before he broke, only yesterday."

"I've not been gone weeks!" Sam argued.

"You have been _dead_ weeks," Lucifer lied. "I had much difficulty finding your soul to return you. The angels hid you from me well. I apologize for it. I would not have left you to suffer at their hands that long by choice."

He expected Sam to scoff or come back with a sarcastic remark, but he didn't. He seemed stunned into silence. Lucifer guessed he was thinking of what could have happened to his brother in those imagined weeks. He would not be able calculate against the time spent in Heaven, as time there moved in a different way to Earth, just as it did in Hell.

After a lot of apparently deep thought, he said, "I don't believe you."

"You are lying."

Sam shook his head. "No. Dean wouldn't break."

Lucifer stepped into his space and cupped his cheek in his hand. "Then why are you crying?"

Sam blinked and tears spilled down his cheeks. He drew a shaky breath and glared at Lucifer. "No."

He wasn't referring to his tears, Lucifer knew. He was reiterating the refusal he had made many times before.

"Why do you fight it?" Lucifer asked. "Your brother is gone now. There is nothing left to fight for."

"There's still a world," Sam said in a wrecked voice.

Lucifer looked apologetic as he turned to the television. "Not for long. See what Michael has been doing in the last day, and tell me there's still a world."

He flipped on the television to display the anchorwoman's explanation of how a small Iowa town had been decimated in one night. Sam's eyes fixed on the story and another tear slipped down his cheek.

"I'll leave you alone," Lucifer said. He stepped back behind the light and opened and closed the door noisily without leaving the room. He lurked against the wall, watching Sam as he absorbed the news story. He had only to wait a few minutes before he heard Sam speak and knew his lie about Dean's consent was believed.

"Oh, Dean," Sam moaned. "No…"

* * *

 **So… Lucifer is a real ass, right? Sorry for the angst and that sneaky character death. It'll soon be over though. Just hang on a little longer.**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	14. Chapter 14

**Thanks you so much Jenjoremy for working your magic on this one. Thank you also SandraEngstrom2 and Gredelina1 for all your help.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Fourteen**_

Though Sam kept his eyes squeezed shut, there was nothing he could do to blot out the voices on the television.

" _And now we bring you more on the developing story of the Milltown Massacre. In the early hours of the morning, a call came in from a teen who had returned home to find his family dead. They were the first discovered but not the last. Witnesses on the scene say it was like something out of a horror movie. People in their homes and on the streets, in stores and bars, were killed without mercy. The injuries so severe and varied there is no way to build a picture of what might have happened. Some of the victims appear to have suffered from animal attacks while others were shot or slain by blades. One officer, who declined to be named, said he had never seen cruelty on this scale, and he's been in the service for twenty-five years. I take you now to our reporter, Tom Goodman, who is currently on the scene."_

There was a pause and a man's voice started to speak.

" _Thank you, Amanda. The situation here is one of chaotic devastation. All of the town's police officers were killed in the attack, so police from towns close by have been drafted to deal with the fallout of the night's events. The local hospital, which also houses the morgue, cannot deal with the sheer number of fatalities, so a temporary mortuary has been set up in the gymnasium of the high school. There have been no official numbers for victims, but the town had a population of slightly over four hundred. What you're seeing now is footage from the arrival earlier today of the Federal Emergency Management Agency. They have been brought in to help deal with the aftermath of this tragedy."_

Sam didn't need to open his eyes to see the blue uniformed people spilling out of buses and making for the school. He had seen the footage a dozen times already, just as he had the images from inside the gymnasium of row after row of sheet, blanket, and finally tarp covered bodies.

" _Wait, we have breaking news,"_ the male reporter said excitedly, and Sam's eyes opened against his will. He saw a man in a dark blue police uniform standing beside the reporter. _"What can you tell us, Chief?"_

" _Miraculously, we have found a survivor,"_ the police chief said. _"A child who appears to be around seven or eight has been found in one of the attacked homes. Naturally, he is traumatized, but we have what we think is his name. Michael. If anyone out there knows who Michael is, please contact our local office. We want to reunite him with some family if we can."_

Sam closed his eyes again and a tear slid down his cheek. Michael. Was it coincidence that the child was named Michael or was he giving the name of his attacker instead of himself? Had Michael gloated over those he had killed, wanting them to know who was killing them before they met their end?

Had Dean seen it all, trapped inside the archangel? Did he know what his hands had done?

* * *

Though Sam despaired, he didn't give in to it. He still had people to fight for: Ellen and Jo, Ash and Bobby, Castiel. They needed him to be strong now more than ever.

It was so hard though. The idea of oblivion was so tempting. Lucifer could stuff him down inside his body, making him feel and know nothing. His soul was crying out for it. He felt so much guilt and pain for what he had done, failing not only the world when he set Lucifer free, but also Dean by not protecting him from Michael. His brother had to have suffered immeasurably before breaking. Sam should never have let that happen.

He had once told Ellen he felt like he was drowning. That had been an echo of emotion compared to what he was feeling now.

He hadn't seen either Meg or Lucifer for hours. For the first time since he had been taken, he had a solid sense of time as the ticker tape on the television counted the minutes passing for him. He tried to concentrate on that rather than the images and voices that recounted the horror of that small Iowa town, but he wasn't always successful. He saw the images of distraught family members coming to the town in search of their loved ones and he heard the name again and again: _Michael, Michael, Michael._

He almost wished for death again. Thaddeus' blades had been sharper and they'd cut deeper than Meg's but he was the only one hurting there. He didn't see the world's pain, too.

Another hour passed before the door opened and Meg came in. Sam braced himself, knowing by her satisfied smile that suffering was approaching. She surprised him though. Instead of presenting him with her razor and getting to work, she extracted a hipflask from her pocket and waved it in front of his face.

"Thirsty, Sammy?" she asked.

Sam's mind was slow and fogged by all he'd suffered, and at first he didn't understand what she was asking. He didn't understand why she was offering him a drink when he had been weeks without. Then he realized what was familiar about the situation: the silver hipflask in the hands of a demon.

His lips curled back from his teeth in a snarl. "No."

Meg rolled her eyes. "You must be bored of that word by now. It's all you seem to say."

"Fuck you."

"Now, here I am offering you a tasty treat and you're being rude. Really, is that how you treat your hosts?"

Sam looked away from her and fixed his eyes on the television instead. He would suffer that rather than engage with the hated demon. On the screen a child's photograph was displayed under a banner that named him as the lone survivor of the Milltown Massacre. Michael. He had light brown hair and green eyes that seemed to pierce Sam despite the sadness in them. Perhaps it was the sadness that pierced him. He had ruined that child's life through his failure.

Meg cursed as she flipped off the television. "No, no, Sammy, it's rude to ignore people."

"You're not people. You're a monster."

She laughed softly. "Says you—the boy who teamed up with that skank Ruby and drank blood. You're the one who kick-started the end. You're the one who failed your brother so completely that he gave it up to Michael." She pointed a finger at the blank screen of the television. "Wait till they start naming them, the ones Michael slid a blade into and killed. Wait till they name the _children_ that were killed because of you and your brother."

Sam fought back a grimace with difficulty.

Meg smiled as she glanced back over her shoulder at the door. "Let's stick a pin in that for now and talk about my question: are you thirsty?"

"No," Sam said firmly.

She smiled wickedly. "I was almost hoping you'd say that. It's much fun this way." She came forward into his space, so close he could almost feel her breath against his face. "Have a drink, Sammy."

Sam started to refuse and realized his mistake too late. She gripped his chin and yanked his jaw down, opening his mouth. Sam struggled and tried to close it again, but she was too strong. With a gleeful smile, she upended the flask over his mouth and the blood poured in. He felt the slick taste on his tongue and he fought not to swallow.

Meg released him and moved back, smiling triumphantly. "How does that feel?" she asked.

In response, Sam spat the blood back at her. It spattered into her eyes and dripped down her cheeks. She swiped her sleeve over her face, smearing the blood, and her features twisted with rage. "You'll regret that."

Sam tried to empty his mouth of the blood that remained by spitting onto the floor. He wished for water to clear the taste, but he knew he had no chance of that. All he could do was get rid of as much of it as possible.

Meg's hand struck out and slapped him across the cheek. "I _said_ you'll regret that!" she hissed.

Sam started back into her black eyes and smiled a bloody lipped smile. "Fuck you," he said, enunciating the words carefully.

She spun on her heel and marched from the room, her whole body radiating anger. Sam watched her go, unafraid of her threat. What could she really do to him that she hadn't done already?

He knew one thing though; this plan to break him had taken an unexpected twist. He didn't know why they wanted him on the blood, but it could be for no good reason. The fact that they were trying to empower him by feeding him the thing that fuelled his powers was worrying, even though he couldn't use them while he had the warded bands trapping him. No, he had to resist it, because the alternative was to destroy himself.

* * *

Ellen woke Dean the next morning by slapping his back and shouting his name. He was glad of the interruption to his nightmare and didn't worry until he saw her wild and horrified face.

"Sam…?" he asked.

"Come and see," she said, turning and rushing out of the room.

Filled with fear, Dean threw back the covers and scrambled out of bed. He raced into the bar barefoot and skidded to a stop as he saw Ellen, Jo and Ash gathered around the TV mounted on the wall. A news station was playing and female anchor was looking grave as she said, _"In the early hours of the morning a call came in from a teen who had returned home to find his family dead. They were the first discovered but not the last. Witnesses on the scene say it was like something out of a horror movie."_

Dean wrapped an arm around Jo's stiff shoulders and pulled her in close. She turned and buried her face in his shoulder. Dean felt the dampness of her tears almost at once. Patting her back, he watched the story unfold on the screen. After what seemed like forever, Jo pulled back and murmured her thanks.

"Where's Castiel?" Dean asked.

"He's gone to Milltown," Ash said quietly. "See if he can figure out what happened somehow."

Dean nodded. "That's good," he said vaguely. "Yeah, good."

Ash met his eye and Dean thought he was thinking the same thing as him—was this Sam? Had he given his consent and this was Lucifer's celebration? He hated himself for thinking it, for having so little faith in his brother's strength, but like Castiel said, man could only take so much.

Dean sank down on a chair at the table behind him and rested his face in his hands. "Why didn't we see the signs?" he asked, his voice muffled.

"It happened in the night," Ash said. "No one was watching the laptop."

Dean sighed. He hadn't thought about that before; now he realized their mistake. No one had explained how the program worked to Castiel. The alerts could have been coming in and he'd have no idea what they were.

"It could have been Lucifer," he said. "It could have been our chance."

"To what?" Ellen asked in a dead tone. "Die?"

Dean's head snapped up to look at her. The stress of the past couple weeks had made their place on her face. Her eyes were tight with tension and sadness and her mouth turned down. She didn't look angry as she had when Sam was first taken; now she looked defeated. "We could have gotten him back, Ellen."

"How?" she asked plaintively. "We have no weapon, no God, no hope."

"I have hope," Dean retorted angrily. "I'm not giving up on him."

Ellen shook her head. "I haven't given up on him. Never in life. I just don't see how we're going to save him." A tear slid down her cheek. "I think he's really gone, Dean." She turned and walked through the door into the back, her shoulders slumped and her breaths catching.

Dean watched her go, unable to not compare her to the ball of fire and determination she had been only weeks ago, the woman who had shot an archangel.

"She loves him, Dean," Jo said quietly. "She just doesn't know how to handle this."

"I know," Dean sighed. "I know that, I just… We need her strong. Sam needs her strong. When we get him back, she's going to regret this."

Jo smiled sadly and nodded.

There was a rustle and Castiel appeared beside Dean's table. "It was demons," he said without preamble.

"And Lucifer?" Dean asked.

"I do not know. I suppose it's within the realm of possibility that Lucifer could have been there, too, but the signs I found all pointed to demons. The stench of sulfur was still in the air."

"Not Sam then," Dean said, relieved.

"No," Castiel confirmed. "Sam still hasn't given consent."

Dean sighed with relief. Castiel had always said they would know if Sam gave in, as the world would know, but he still felt better with the angel's assurance.

Sam hadn't given in, which meant a new day of suffering was just starting for him. Another day and Dean still hadn't gotten him back.

* * *

Things changed for Sam. Lucifer came to him late the day Meg first tried to give him blood and healed him without a word. The change in routine worried Sam. He couldn't help but think that something worse than Lucifer's words and memories must be coming. When the archangel flipped on the TV and then left the room, Sam watched him go, tense and almost afraid.

The next step in their plan came the next day. The blood. It continued for four days before Sam was defeated.

Meg didn't hurt him again, and Lucifer didn't come. Sam suspected he had left for a while. He was glad of the reprieve from both Lucifer and the torture, though the anticipation was hard to handle. Sometimes questions of what was happening rose to his lips, and he had to fight them down. He would not give Meg the satisfaction of showing weakness.

Every day, a few times a day, she would come armed with blood and he would fight against her as she poured it into his mouth. Every day he would spit it back at her. What confused him were the mechanical movements of what she was doing. There were ways she could have forced him to drink, he knew, so why didn't she use them? She seemed satisfied to see him just spitting it back at her each time. He worried what her new plan was.

He found out the next day.

The sun was starting to illuminate the skylight and Sam was watching it, seeing the dawn of a new day under Lucifer's hold, when he felt his previously desiccated mouth start to water. He had been without human needs so long that it felt strange. He swallowed reflexively and coughed to clear his throat. The feeling intensified and his stomach clenched painfully. He was aching for something; he couldn't tell if it was food or drink that he craved, but it was strong. He swallowed again and tried to force it from his mind. Thankfully, a distraction came in the form of Meg entering the room.

She came to a stop in front of him, too close for comfort, and smiled. "How does it feel?" she asked.

Sam coughed. "What have you done to me?"

"Me? Nothing. This is all down to our guest."

Sam felt agitated and the gnawing need in him intensified. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears, much too fast.

"Who is here?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Secret. And you didn't answer _my_ question. How does it feel? You thirsty maybe?"

Sam's eyes narrowed and then a wash of saliva flooded his mouth as she pulled a hipflask from her pocket. That! That was what he needed. Just the sight of the flask was enough to make him pull forward as much as his restraints would allow.

Meg laughed as she unscrewed the cap and tilted the flask— he thought he could almost smell the blood, rich and coppery, tempting—dripping a spat of blood onto the floor. It glistened there, wasted, needed. Sam strained towards it.

"That's my boy," Meg crooned. "You know what you need."

Sam tried to command control of himself, but it was like fighting a hurricane. He felt like he was being burned alive, sweating and shaking. His whole body needed the blood.

"No," he growled, both in refusal and reminder of what he was fighting.

"Yes," she said confidently.

After, Sam would be unable to remember if he had fought her. He wanted to believe he did, but the moment her hand gripped his chin and dragged his jaw open, he felt some animal instinct take over and when the blood touched his tongue, he swallowed.

Defeated tears sprang to his eyes but he couldn't stop the moan that was drawn from him as his body reacted to the blood. It was like a cooling balm on a burn, water in a desert. His veins sang and his nerves fired in a toe-curling moment of relief. He had been torn apart and made whole again by the blood.

As the last strings of blood reached his tongue and the flask emptied, Meg stepped back, satisfied at her victory. "Better?"

"No," Sam moaned.

"Liar. Do you want some more?"

"No," Sam said again, even as he nodded frantically. His body had a will of its own and he couldn't control it. Though his being cried out in pain at what he had done, what he had let her do, he wanted more.

Meg laughed "Feeling a little conflicted there, Sammy?"

"Fuck you," Sam growled, even as his mind raced— _Where's the blood? I need more. Not enough. Never enough._

"That was rude," she said, though she sounded amused. "I think you can wait a little longer for your next juice box."

"Lucifer!" Sam cried. He would give him what he needed. He wouldn't let Meg deny him.

"Lucifer's not here right now," Meg said. "He's out dealing with people that actually matter. Strung out junkies are low on his list of priorities."

She spun on her heel and sashayed out of the room, the flask in her swinging hand. Sam watched it and her go and tried not to cry out for more.

* * *

The feeling of need didn't lessen over time; instead, it got even worse. His body juddered with tremors and his mouth and throat felt arid. He thought he was losing his mind, though could he really be if he was aware of it? Shouldn't insanity be freeing? He wished for oblivion, for death, for blood, more than anything for blood. He didn't understand where the feeling came from. He had never craved it like this before. He had spent months drinking only to stop and never had it affected him in this way. He truly felt like a junkie craving a hit. He _needed_ it. He was in agony that only blood could soothe. He knew that if they set a bleeding demon at his feet, he would drink from it and smile. He had no control over himself.

He tried to cling to strength and sanity by thinking of people he loved, but it was useless. He couldn't bring any face to mind. There were no memories of their voices to cling to, no scents and sounds of The Roadhouse to remember. The desperate need for blood had wiped all else away.

He had their names, Ellen, Jo, Ash, Bobby, Dean, the people he should fight for, but Dean was gone and Sam would never see the others again. They were lost to him as Lucifer would never free him now. Lucifer… Sam was immensely relieved the archangel was away dealing with whatever apocalyptic plans he was formulating now, because he didn't have faith in himself to say no if asked the question; not when all else was focused on the need for blood. Was it possible the world would end because Sam needed a hit?

He was left alone for a long time, long enough that he started to think they would never come back, before there was movement at the door and Meg entered. Unusually, she wasn't alone. There was another black-eyed demon with her. Unlike Meg, he didn't gloat over Sam. He looked a little afraid.

"How are you feeling?" Meg asked.

Sam swallowed the saliva swimming in his mouth and searched her for a sign of the flask. He couldn't see it. All she held was a slim silver knife. Sam guessed it was time for him to be tortured again. He wondered if it would hurt as much as the craving already did.

Meg tilted her head to the side. "Hmm… you're looking ready. I wonder…"

Sam's lips curled back from his teeth. He needed her to deliver already. He needed the blood.

Meg lifted the other demon's arm and cut slowly across its wrist. Blood welled and dripped down to the floor— _Wasted!_

Sam's lips parted automatically and the saliva flooded again. He _needed_ it.

She didn't leave him to suffer long. She dragged the demon forward and brought its wrist up to Sam's mouth. "Have at it then."

Sam's sealed his mouth around the wound and drank. He couldn't think of family or friends, the world or humanity; he could only relish the feeling of the blood suffusing and strengthening him. All too soon, Meg was pulling the demon's wrist away and leaving Sam panting. He groaned as he swallowed the last of the blood.

"How does it feel?" Meg asked.

 _Powerful,_ Sam thought. That was the feeling that pervaded him now. He felt that if he tried he would be able to exorcise again. The warded bands were strong, but Sam was stronger. He could do it if he just tried hard enough. But what good would that do? He could send Meg back to Hell, but he would be just as trapped there as he had been for weeks. He needed to get free first, and then… then he could revenge himself and his brother.

His mind clear temporarily of the craving for blood, he began to plan.

* * *

"Meg!" Sam bellowed, his voice strained. "Meg!"

It wasn't hard for him to behave as if he was desperate because he was. He needed more blood, both for the power and to sate the need in him. His body cried out for more while his mind cried out for freedom.

The door flew open, swinging back to hit the opposite wall. "You called," Meg said.

"I'm thirsty."

"I'll get you a soda," she said sarcastically.

"You know what I need," Sam growled.

She smiled smugly. "I do. Boy, he did a real number on you, didn't he? I knew he was strong but, wow, you're a regular addict again. How does it feel?"

Sam pressed his lips into a thin line as if trying to hold back the words that wanted to spill forth. Meg delivering what he needed was the crux of the plan.

"Fine," she said. Holding the doorframe, she leaned back and shouted, "Callum, come here a moment."

It wasn't the demon Sam had drunk from before that arrived, but a new one. Sam thought that was better. He would be running full, and Sam would be able to take more from him.

"Sammy's thirsty," she said happily, holding out the knife to the demon.

The demon grimaced but took the knife and rested it against his wrist. With a determined look, it pressed down and split the skin. Sam smiled as the blood welled and the demon brought it to his mouth. Sam drank deeply, feeling the power rushing through him, and his heart raced with both satisfaction and excitement. He was going to be able to do it; he could feel it. He just needed to reach out and…

His hand fisted and the demon cried out in pain. With a rush of satisfaction, Sam clenched his fist tightly and the demon he was drinking from collapsed to the floor, dead.

It seemed to take Meg a moment to catch up with what was happening. Her eyes darted from Sam to the demon and her mouth dropped open. "How…" she gasped.

Sam leered at her. "Guess the blood made me stronger than you expected."

She spun on her heel and ran for the door, but Sam was too fast. He focused his mind and gripped her core, holding her in place. She slowly turned back to face him and her expression twisted with hatred. "You can't do this."

"Can. Will." His fingers tightened and she cried out in pain. The sound was like music to his ears. He wanted to hold her until she screamed, he wanted to clench his hand and break her completely, but he needed to wait just a little longer. If he killed her now, he would be trapped until Lucifer came back, and the only satisfaction he would have would be her defeat. There was still so much for him to do. "You're going to do something for me now," he said. "Let me free."

"I can't," she panted which morphed into a scream as Sam hurt her again.

"You can. You will."

There was the sound of pounding footsteps and two demons burst into the room. Sam automatically dropped Meg and reached for the first. With a push and squeeze he killed it, without sparing a single thought for the host—he was too far gone to think about others. He reached for the second, realizing his mistake too late. Meg was running. He reached for her, but she was already gone. Fury rolled through him and he used it to strengthen himself. He gripped the second demon and squeezed until it howled.

"You're going to let me free," he said, and he felt something more than anger now; there was immense power, too. His voice seemed to hold strength he never had before. To his surprise—and apparently to the demon's, too—it walked toward the bonds around Sam's right wrists and unbuckled them. Sam's eyes bugged as his hand fell free and aching to his side. "And the other," he said, and his voice held that same deep tenor and power. The demon freed his other wrist and Sam stretched his fingers as the prickling blood rushed back into them. Then, when his ankles were freed, he stepped away from the rack at last.

Though he was no longer holding it, the demon stood idle in front of him as if awaiting orders. Sam tested a theory. "Turn around." The demon obeyed without a word.

Sam remembered a conversation from a long time ago, and he finally understood what Ava had meant. _'If you'd just open yourself up, you have no idea what you can do. The learning curve is so fast, it's crazy, the switches that just flip in your brain.'_

Sam had flipped a switch. He was going to utilize it.

He circled the demon, seeing the horror in its eyes and otherwise slack expression.

"What did Lucifer do to me?" he asked. "Why do I want the blood so desperately?"

"Famine," the demon said in a strained tone.

Sam frowned. "The horseman?"

"Yes. He can affect humans, make them crave things. Lucifer needed you broken, an addict again, so you would break easier."

"Where is Famine?" Sam asked.

The demon winced. "In town. He's going to bring it to its knees. He's in the old mansion on the edge of town. I have to go to take him the souls."

"Souls?"

"It's what he feeds on. He needs them to strengthen himself again."

Sam knew without doubt that the demon wasn't lying because it _couldn't_ lie to him now. He had heard enough; he knew where he needed to go next.

"Is there anything else I need to know?" he asked idly, no real expectation that there was.

"Your brother," the demon said.

"What about him?"

The demon swallowed thickly. "Lucifer lied. Michael doesn't have a vessel yet. Your brother hasn't given consent."

There was ringing in Sam's ears. He felt sick. "Are you sure? What about Milltown?"

"That was us. Meg took us there and told us to have fun."

Sam closed his eyes for a moment, absorbing the relief.

"Will you kill me now?" the demon asked hopefully.

Sam didn't answer with words. He merely clenched his fist, making the demon scream out in pain. He wanted to make it last, to vent his fury at all he'd suffered at the demons' hands linger for this one outlet, but there was something he needed to do now that was more important. His fingers curled tight and the demon dropped dead to the floor.

* * *

To Sam's surprise, he recognized the town he was in almost as soon as he got within its limits. It was just a short drive from The Roadhouse, a town he and John had sometimes stayed in when they needed some space when visiting Ellen and Jo. It seemed sick that all the time he'd been held captive, he had been without walking distance of his home. The demons and Lucifer must have gotten a good laugh out of the secret. The one benefit of his location was that he knew exactly where the mansion would be found.

He had taken a car from the farmhouse, a crappy black Honda with bald tires and a rattling exhaust. It was good enough to get him across town though. The mansion loomed over him as he approached. He dumped the car on the edge of the road and made the rest of the journey on foot. He wasn't worried about being heard by the demons, he knew he was more than a match for them, but he wanted to make an entrance regardless.

The blood was still pulsing through him, making him feel invincible, as he strutted to the front doors of the mansion and kicked them open. There were shouts from within and two demons raced into the hall to meet him. It was easy, too easy, to kill them where they stood. There wasn't even a little pressure on his mind.

He walked through the door the demons had come through and stopped just inside the room. There were four demons standing in the corners and a man in a motorized wheelchair by the fireplace. At first all Sam saw was the back of his head, sparse grey hair. Then the chair turned and the man was revealed. He was a ruin. Rheumy eyes set in wrinkled sockets stared at Sam and a wide smile curved his pale lips. "Sam Winchester," he said. "My sweet boy, I see you have been enjoying yourself. Tell me, how does it feel to be chock full of power again? Did you miss it?"

"Feels good," Sam said. It did feel good, powerful, right, but oh so wrong.

"I'm sure." Famine smiled. "Now you're here, free. I admit that's unexpected. I thought Lucifer had you locked down tight. Tell me, where is he now?"

"No idea," Sam said honestly. "He left me an out though."

"Apparently so."

Sam pulled the knife he had taken from the farmhouse from his pocket and made to walk towards the horseman. Famine looked unsurprised. "You won't kill me, Sam. You can't."

"No," Sam agreed. "I don't suppose I can." He raised the knife. "I can hurt you though."

The demons hadn't moved from their corners. They seemed afraid of drawing his attention, but now, at Famine's nod, they came forward. Sam closed his eyes and raised a fist slowly. Smoke poured from their mouths in unison and then sifted to the floor. The abandoned meat suits dropped and only one of them stirred. Sam thought the others must be dead.

"That was impolite," Famine said, sounding a little uneasy now. "You should not attack your hosts."

"Not my host," Sam said, stalking towards him.

The horseman's fingers fiddled with the controls of his wheelchair and it moved back, hitting the wall. Sam grinned. "Looks like you're trapped."

"Lucifer will not let you do this," Famine said.

Sam looked around exaggeratedly. "Funny, I don't see him here."

Famine fumbled with his ring and Sam felt a surge of need rush through him. His throat felt raw with want. He stumbled and then got his feet under him again. He could not weaken now. Pushing down the want as far as he could, he staggered forward, the knife gripped tightly in his hand.

Perhaps Famine cried out, Sam didn't know, he only heard the pounding of his own blood in his ears. With a thud that jarred up his arm, the knife cut through Famine's finger and impaled itself in the cushioned arm of the wheelchair.

He bent and picked up the finger from the floor and slid off the ring. Famine was howling with pain, clutching his ruined hand against his chest, but Sam barely paid him any attention. He turned and walked away to the door, only pausing when he heard Famine call out behind him.

"You will never be free of the blood. You have no idea what will become of you if you stop, Sam. No idea!"

Sam walked away without looking back. He had somewhere he needed to be.

* * *

Sam stood concealed in the bushes behind The Roadhouse, looking through the window. Ellen was behind the bar, her face strained as she wiped a cloth over the counter mechanically. Dean and Jo stood behind Ash at the laptop. He couldn't see their faces, but their stances were tense and stiff. Despite the anxiety that seemed to bleed from them through the walls of the building, Sam absorbed the sight of them with a smile. They were okay. Dean was okay. He was himself, Sam knew.

He took the phone he had mugged from some poor soul in town from his pocket and dialed the familiar number. Ellen set down the rag and moved along the bar to answer. Her voice was quiet and Sam could almost feel the longing that came from her down the line.

" _Roadhouse."_

"Ellen," Sam said softly. "It's me…"

* * *

 **So… Sammy flipped the switch and is free. I had a lot of fun writing these scenes, even though the blood was hard, and hope they make for good reading.**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	15. Chapter 15

**Much love to Jenjoremy, Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2 for beta'ing and helping me get my ideas in order.**

 **You all get a gift in the form of an extra chapter this week as today is my birthday and — to use Gredelina1's words — I can do what I want ;-)**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Fifteen**_

It was early and the though bar was not yet open, it was only a matter of time until the hunters started pounding on the door, starting a new day of trade and waiting for news.

In some ways it was better when they were busy, as Dean could occupy himself helping out behind the bar. The thoughts of, and fear for, his brother never left him, but when he was forcing a smile for a customer and dodging questions about Sam's whereabouts _—'Got cut up on a hunt and is recovering at a friend's place'—_ he wasn't allowing himself to be swallowed by the fear. Jo and Ellen did the same, while Ash filled his time searching the program on his laptop for signs and Castiel listened to the voices of his former family.

They were coping in their own ways.

The phone rang and Ellen set down her cloth and moved around the bar to answer it. Dean wasn't paying much attention as she answered with her usual greeting of, "Roadhouse." Then he heard her suck in a breath and his eyes snapped to her. "Sam?" she said weakly. "Oh God, Sam. Honey, are you okay? Where are you?"

Dean crossed to her in long strides and snatched the phone out of her hand. "Sammy?"

"It's me," a tired voice replied.

Dean felt overwhelmed with relief and shock. His eyes prickled and when he blinked, a tear escaped his hold. Dean was jostled as Ellen and Jo crowded into his space, pressing their heads close to hear what Sam was saying. Dean stepped away from them and held up his free hand to hold them back. He needed space. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"I'm okay," Sam said. "I got away."

"Thank God," Dean breathed.

" _He_ didn't have much to do with it," Sam said, a bite of anger in his tone. "Look, I can't talk long. There's something I need to do."

"What?" Dean asked, worry starting to temper his relief again. "Where are you?"

"I can't tell you that yet."

"Why not?" Dean cursed the break in his voice. "What's happening?"

Sam drew a noisy breath and when he spoke it was like he was forcing he words out through pain. "I drank it, Dean: the blood."

"Sammy…" There was no judgment in Dean's tone; he was just so sad for his brother.

"I need to go away a while to get it out of my system," Sam said, his voice stronger now.

"You don't have to do it alone. Come home so we can take care of you. We can help you."

Sam's sigh crackled down the line. "You really can't. You can do something though; I need you to tell Ellen about the blood. She deserves to know."

"Are you sure?"

"It'll help her understand." There was pause while Dean tried to find the words to reassure his brother and then Sam said with finality. "I'll be back when I can. Take care of each other."

"Sam, no!" Dean said quickly. "Talk to me! Please…"

It was too late, Sam had hung up.

"Dammit!" he shouted.

"He's not coming back?" Jo asked in shock, her eyes darting to her mother.

"Not yet," Dean said. "He will though. He said so."

"Sure, because Sam's never lied to us before," she replied bitterly.

"He's not lying now," Dean said confidently. "He'll come back when he can."

There was a soft sob and Dean saw Ellen clap her hand over her mouth as if to stifle the sound. He opened his arms and she came into them, letting him hold her as she shook against him.

"He's okay," Dean soothed. "He's out and he's okay."

Ellen clung to him and he let her cry. Jo was under Ash's arm and Castiel watched from his place across the room, physically separate but connected in relief and worry. Sam was free, but he wasn't there. He had run from them. Again.

* * *

Sam pulled through the iron arch of Bobby's yard with a sense of trepidation. He was working with a hunch that Bobby cared enough for Dean that he would do this for him—protect him. If there was any other secure place he could have gone, he would have, but Bobby's panic room was the only place equipped for what he needed—a lockdown.

He brought the chugging car to a stop by the door and cut the engine. He had a feeling it wasn't going to start again without some serious work from Bobby. He hoped he wouldn't need it though. If he got through this, he would be back with Dean and the Impala. And if he didn't make it through, nothing mattered. He would be beyond caring about what he drove.

Bobby had obviously heard the car approaching, as the back door opened and he stepped onto the porch. His eyes widened and then he hurried down the steps when he caught sight of Sam climbing slowly from the car.

"My God," he whispered.

"Hey," Sam said with a forced smile.

"How are you here? I thought Lucifer had you."

"He did," Sam said. "I escaped. Look, Bobby, I need help."

"Of course," Bobby said quickly. "Whatever you need."

Sam straightened and the tattered remains of his shirt opened, laying his chest bare to Bobby's eyes. His face colored and he spoke in a low growl, "What did they do to you?"

Sam didn't answer. It was a stupid question. What they had done was obvious—they'd tortured him. He looked down at his ravaged skin and shook his head. They had sure made a mess of him. The time under Meg's knife felt like a lifetime ago though. The blood was presently at the forefront of his mind. That need…

"Come in, come in." Bobby reached for Sam as if he was going to try to support him, but Sam walked ahead into the house under his own steam. He wasn't feeling weak—he was still suffused with blood given strength. "Do you want anything?" Bobby asked as Sam sat down in a chair at the table. "Coffee? Beer? Something stronger?"

"Coffee."

Bobby busied himself at the counter for a moment and then set a mug down in front of Sam. He drank it, feeling the heat seep into him and the last lingering taste of blood leave his mouth. When he pushed away his empty mug, Bobby said, "Where's Dean?"

"At The Roadhouse," Sam said.

"You've seen him?" Bobby asked. Sam could tell he'd already guessed the answer. It was given away by the slight touch of disapproval that leaked into his tone.

"I've spoken to him," Sam said evasively.

"And that's not even half the story, is it?"

Sam hadn't wanted to come to Bobby for this reason. The man was too perceptive. It wasn't that he'd thought he would get away with evading questions about Dean, but Bobby was going to want more than an explanation of why Dean couldn't know where he was.

"I'll answer your questions," Sam said reluctantly, "but I'm asking something in return."

Bobby crossed his arms over his chest and nodded slowly. "Okay." No promises made, but no refusal either. It was as good as Sam was going to get.

"You can't tell Dean I'm here," he said. "No matter what happens, he can't know where I am until I say."

Bobby frowned. "I can't promise that."

"Why not?" Sam asked, genuinely confused. "You've done it before. After I got tagged by that werewolf, you fixed me up and didn't tell him."

"That was to protect him," Bobby argued.

Sam laughed harshly. "You think it's not about that now, too? Believe me, this is about more than protecting him from me being a dick. This is so much worse…"

"What's happened to you, Sam?"

"You have to swear," Sam said, "I'll tell you it all, but you have to promise me."

He could see the battle waging in Bobby, curiosity versus loyalty and honesty. Bobby started to answer, but then the phone rang and he crossed the room seemingly automatically and picked up the receiver. "Singer Salvage." There was a pause in which his face slackened and then, locking eyes with Sam he said, "Hey, Dean."

"Please," Sam mouthed. "Please, Bobby." He could do no more than hope that Bobby would respect what he wanted. He waited, nervously chewing on his thumbnail, for Bobby to speak again.

"He has?" Bobby asked. "That's great, son. Is he okay?" He paused and listened for a moment and then said, "Well, that sure sounds like him. Any idea where he is?"

Sam breathed a sigh of relief. Bobby was going to cover for him.

"Me? No," Bobby said to Dean. "No idea. I'm sorry, Dean. Have you thought about that though?" He grimaced. "It's just, seems to me that if he's keeping his distance, it's for a good reason. No, I know that, Dean, more than anyone I understand that, but Sam's not a fool. If that's what he's saying, he's probably right." Dean spoke and Bobby's eyes fixed on Sam, anger rolling in their depths. "I promise you, son, if I see him, you'll be the first to know." He sighed heavily. "Keep me updated, okay? I'll be hoping, too. Bye, Dean." He set the phone back in its cradle and scrubbed a hand over his face, his discomfort obvious.

"Thank you, Bobby," Sam said fervently. "Really. I'm grateful."

"You damn well better be," Bobby growled. "I just lied to the man I love like a son for you. Now, I want some answers. Why's it so important he not know where you are?"

Sam drew a deep breath and said, "I'm back on the blood."

Bobby frowned. "You think it'll help you defeat Lucifer? Because he's an angel, Sam, not a demon."

"I know," Sam said. "No, I don't think it'll help me with Lucifer. I don't think anything will help with that anymore. This is all about weakness."

He drew a deep breath, braced himself, and launched into the story of his capture and imprisonment. He concealed nothing from Bobby, not the days of torture, nor the fact they'd tricked him into believing Dean had given in to Michael. He told him how he had died and what Thaddeus had done to him. When he came to Famine, he closed his eyes and bared his soul completely. He explained how much he had craved the blood, how it had consumed him when he drank. He made no attempt to hide the thrill of killing the demon and how it had felt when he flipped the switch. Bobby had barely started to exclaim his shock when Sam got to Famine again. He told of how he had taken the ring from the horseman and the creature's last warning.

"What will become of you if you stop?" Bobby said in a musing tone.

Sam nodded. "Yeah. That's what I'm worried about."

"But you've stopped before and you were okay. You've done it a couple times."

"I know. I don't understand it either. Famine said I was free of its influence, but I don't feel like it. I still _want_ the blood. I've never needed it like this before. "I'm…" It was on the tip of his tongue to admit he was scared. "I'm worried."

Bobby nodded thoughtfully. "Okay. What can I do for you? Anything you need, you only have to ask."

Sam smiled slightly. "I need your panic room. I can lock myself in there, but I can't keep myself in. I need you to make sure I don't get out until it's over."

"What's over?"

"Whatever happens next. I need to get the blood out of my system, and I don't know how hard that's going to be. I know from how I feel now, though, that it's not going to be easy this time."

"Okay," Bobby said. "I'll lock you down and I'll keep you down as long as you need."

"Thank you, Bobby," he said, his sincerity obvious. "I know this isn't going to be easy for you, lying to Dean, but it's for his sake that I'm doing it. I don't want him seeing."

Bobby adjusted his cap and said in a gruff voice. "No part of this is going to be easy, Sam, but, way I figure it, I owe you. We all do."

Sam frowned. "You do?"

"You didn't break. What Lucifer did to you was beyond cruel, and a lesser man would have given in. You didn't. I'm proud of you."

Sam shook off his words and swallowed as a wash of yearning swept through him. It seemed that now the preparations were made, his mind could return to focusing on what he needed again.

Blood.

* * *

The relief Ellen had felt hearing Sam's voice and knowing he was free was immense. For the first time in weeks, she felt like she could breathe again. She wanted to hold him, to take care of him, but he wasn't there. Once again he had run, and she didn't understand why. Surely he would want to see them as much as they did him after he'd been gone so long and through so much. The whole time he'd been gone, she'd been praying he'd be freed and she'd see him again. He was free now, but he wasn't with her. Why not?

Whatever the reason, Dean knew more than he was letting on. He'd sworn he'd tell her what was happening but then he'd left the bar and disappeared into the bedroom he and Sam shared. He'd said he only needed a minute, but it'd been hours and he'd not reappeared. Ellen guessed he needed space to feel his relief at Sam's freedom and frustration at his continued absence in private.

The bar was staring to fill when Dean finally appeared in the doorway and gestured to her. She caught Jo's eye and when she came to the bar, Ellen asked her to take over the taps for a while. Jo glanced at Dean where he stood looking solemn and nodded. "Sure, Mom."

Dean turned and walked through to the back and Ellen followed.

"Coffee?" Dean asked when she entered the kitchen.

She nodded and he poured a mug and handed it to her before taking a seat at the table. Ellen hesitated then copied him. "Dean, what's going on?" she asked.

Dean drew a breath and spoke in a rush. "Sam told me I could tell you, and I will, but I need you to do something for me first."

"Tell me what?" she asked suspiciously. Whatever it was, Dean was obviously uncomfortable even preparing to talk about it, and that worried her. "Sam's okay, right?"

"Yeah," he said, though there was no conviction in his voice.

"Dean…"

"I'll tell you what I know," he promised. "But you've got to do something for me."

"Okay," she said slowly. "What do I need to do?"

"Remember," he said. "Remember Sam."

She started to ask what he meant, but he spoke over her.

"You remember when we got back here, just after Sammy was brought back by the deal? Do you remember what he promised me?"

Like she could forget. She had been overwhelmed with relief, seeing her boy alive again when her last view of him had been ice-cold with death in that dank cabin on a dirty bed. She even remembered the look on his face as he'd said it—determination and devastation. "He said he'd save you."

"He did," Dean agreed. "And you remember the rest of that year. Everything he did to try to save me?"

"Of course. I know how hard he tried. He did everything he could." He had opened himself up to his powers. He had turned his back on what John Winchester had taught him and what he believed himself about the supernatural being all bad. He had gone against it all in allowing those powers to take over. He'd changed himself.

"Exactly. He did _everything._ " Dean raked a hand over his face and drew a deep breath. Then he spoke, and it was like a rush of poison pouring from him. "Sam drank blood. He drank demon blood to boost his powers. It worked. Without it, he was hardly able to get a hold of the demons. With it, he could exorcise them, hold them, and then later, kill them."

Ellen fell against the chair back as shock rolled over her. She felt sick. He boy had drunk blood! Her chest felt tight and she had to consciously focus on breathing for a moment, one shaking hand rubbing over her sternum.

Dean was speaking, but she wasn't paying attention to what he was saying. She was reeling. Sam had given up _everything_ to save his brother. She'd thought she already knew that, but she hadn't had a clue. Fury built in her chest and she closed her eyes for a moment. Yellow-Eyes had done that to him. Had it not fed it to him as an innocent baby, he never would have had need of it as an adult. Then its interference had caused Sam to kill himself, which led to Dean making his deal. The Demon… It was all down to him that her boy had been forced to corrupt himself that way with… "Blood," she growled.

"Don't be mad," Dean begged, sounding almost childlike. "You can't be mad at him, Ellen. Not you. It'd break him. He was trying to save me. It wasn't his fault. He felt like he had no choice."

Ellen looked at him and saw the tears swimming in his eyes. "Oh, honey," she said, "I'm not mad at him. Or you. I'm mad that this happened at all. I'm mad he didn't tell me sooner. So much makes sense now. I wish I'd known. I could have helped him." "

"He couldn't tell you," Dean said sadly. "He couldn't disappoint you."

"He never could," she said. "I love that boy, both you boys, so much. Nothing you can do will disappoint me. You're heroes. I love you like you were my own."

"Sam _is_ your own," Dean said seriously. "I remember my mom. I had four years of her and in that time I made so many memories. I remember her telling me she loved me. Sam doesn't have those memories, even though she loved him just as much. The only mother Sam has ever known is you, and he loves you like you are his mom. I know he doesn't say it, but I know…"

His words trailed off as Ellen's hands came up to cover her face. She had thought of Sam as her own since he was a child, but she'd never been able to claim him, as Mary Winchester's memory had been there at the forefront of it all through the hunt for the demon. Unable to say it, she had tried to be what she would want for Jo from another person if she wasn't there. Sam _was_ hers though, and now she had his brother's acceptance of it, too.

Dean sat in silence with a hand on her shoulder, letting her cry until she had marshaled control of herself and sniffed her way to calm again.

"Okay," she said, drawing a breath and wiping her face with her sleeve. "What does the blood have to do with him not being here now? That's why he isn't, right?"

Dean took up the tale again. "Sam stopped drinking when I got back from Hell. Then, after the shooting, he started again. He knew he had to stop Lilith, and the only way to do that was with the blood. After Lucifer came he stopped again, but when he was captured, he drank. I don't know how or why, because he wouldn't have done it by choice after what happened last time. He's drunk it though, and now he's gone away to get it out of his system." He sighed. "I don't really understand why though. He's stopped it before and there was no problem. Somehow, this time it's different for him."

"It is different," a voice said in the doorway.

Ellen spun in her chair and saw Castiel standing in the doorway. She didn't know how long he had been there, listening to their talk, but he had been there long enough to hear enough to make him look tense and strained. He came further into the room and said, "The blood taints Sam, corrupting him while it powers him. There is a price for that power; addiction. He has stopped drinking the blood twice before, and he has suffered little or no side effects because that was how it was made to be."

"Made by whom?" Dean asked, a bite of anger in his tone.

"The first time, me," Castiel said apologetically. "When I met you for the first time, when I cast Sam unconscious, it was not just to minimize annoyance and interference. I cleansed him of the taint, too. The blood was removed from his system carefully, and he was left unharmed by the process. The second time it happened was at Lucifer's hand when he returned Sam after his suicide."

Ellen's mind seemed to be working at half speed. She was caught on the word _addiction._ Shaking her head to clear it, she asked the most important question, "What does this mean for him?"

"It means he is going to go through a process of withdrawal, and that is going to be very hard on him."

"Hard how?" Ellen asked, standing and grabbing at the lapels of his coat when he didn't answer fast enough. "How, Castiel?"

"I have never seen a human go through this," Castiel said, "so I have no frame of reference, but it was always understood among the angels that it would be incapacitating and devastating for him and those around him." He looked apologetic again. "Why do you think we interfered at all? We needed our weapons strong."

"They're not weapons!" she shouted.

Dean laid a hand on her arm. "He knows, Ellen."

"I'm sorry," Castiel said. "I just mean that what Sam is going to suffer is going to be…"

"Thanks, Cas," Dean cut him off. "We get the idea."

"Can you do it again?" Ellen asked. "If we find him, can you stop his suffering?"

"I cannot. The process needs the power of Heaven behind it, and I am cut off."

Ellen turned away and wiped at her wet face. She felt Dean's hand on her shoulder and she tried to feel comforted by it, but it was futile. She needed Sam there to comfort her, but he couldn't be. He was already probably suffering unimaginably somewhere. And she didn't know where. She couldn't help. None of them could.

* * *

Sam had made two requests before Bobby saw him down to the panic room: that he not let Sam out until he was sure it was over, and that he not tell Dean he was there, no matter what. The last request was repeated a few times until Bobby swore it. Almost as soon as he made it, he regretted his promise, though he knew he could not break it. Sam had been through so much in his life; the least he deserved was someone to let him call the shots for himself. There was also the fact of Sam's rarely given trust in Bobby to consider. _He_ was the man Sam had come to for help, something he never imagined would happen, and Bobby would not fail him. After everything Sam had done, resisting the devil for weeks, Bobby could only hope it wouldn't be as bad as Sam seemed to expect. He didn't deserve to suffer more.

With the promise achieved, Sam had turned away and gone to sit with his back to Bobby on the cot which they'd set up in the middle of the room while preparing the place for Sam, clearing out the weapons and setting up a table with several bottles of water on top and a bucket beneath.

Knowing Sam had no more need of him in that moment, Bobby had locked the door, closed the hatch, and gone upstairs to get good and drunk on rotgut whiskey. He must have drunk himself into unconsciousness, as he couldn't have fallen asleep naturally wound as tight as he was.

He woke though, bleary-eyed and aching on his couch, to find the sky out of the window was black. He stayed seated for a moment, listening hard for a sign of what was happening in that basement. There was no sound though, not that he was surprised. The walls were solid iron and a floor below. All he could hear was the tick of the clock on the mantelpiece. Sam had advised Bobby to keep his distance, but he hadn't forced a promise, so Bobby felt entitled to go check on him.

He made his way down the basement steps with a sense of trepidation, bracing himself as he reached the door and opened the hatch.

Sam wasn't visible at first, but then he passed by the door making a circuit of the room. Bobby had to call his name three times before he was heard and Sam came to the door.

Bobby's first thought was that the young hunter looked like hell; his second was to wonder just how long had he been sleeping for Sam to have ended up looking like this. "How are you doing?" Bobby asked.

Sam shrugged. "Okay, I guess."

"How are you _feeling_?" he amended.

Sam seemed to hesitate for a moment, and Bobby guessed he was deciding how honest to be. "Like I got the flu virus on steroids," he admitted. He brought a hand up to wipe over his face and Bobby saw it was shaking.

"You think painkillers would help?" Bobby asked. "I have some pretty heavy-duty stuff upstairs."

"I think bringing new drugs to the party is a bad idea," Sam said.

Bobby hadn't thought of it like that. He just wanted to be able to offer something, anything, to help. "Sorry," he muttered

Sam shook his head. "No. I appreciate what you're doing for me. I just…" He sighed and then his eyes became wistful. "Have you heard anything more from Dean?"

"Nothing," Bobby said. "I could call him if you wanted, just check in on how they're doing."

Sam looked sad. "No need. I think I have a pretty good idea already."

Bobby nodded. He thought he knew how things would be going at The Roadhouse, too. They would all, Ellen and Dean especially, be worrying about Sam, wondering where he was. Bobby thought for the first time that it was better that they didn't see him yet though. He looked worse already than Bobby had expected him to be, and it was only just starting. They didn't need to see Sam suffer.

* * *

When Bobby next checked on Sam, things had declined dramatically. Sam was lying on the cot, his shaking body making the springs squeak. Bobby didn't hesitate before entering the room and going straight to him. He looked ill. His face was sheened with sweat, his eyes red-rimmed and his lips chapped and sore. His fevered eyes rolled and fixed on Bobby.

"Have you been drinking?" Bobby asked at once.

Sam looked distressed at the question. "No! I promise I haven't, Bobby."

"I mean water. You look dehydrated."

Sam brought a finger to his face and ran it over his lip. "Oh. I guess not." He struggled to sit on the edge of the cot, falling back twice before managing to stay upright. He tried to get to stand, but his legs didn't seem to want to hold him.

"I'll get it," Bobby said, going to the table and picking up one of the bottles of water they'd left there. He took it back to Sam and held it out. Sam took it and fumbled with the cap for a moment before getting it open. He held it with both hands and brought it to his mouth. A little spilled down his shirt as he drank down the bottle. When it was empty, his hands dropped back to his lap as if he didn't have the strength to hold them up anymore.

Bobby wanted to ask how he was feeling again, but it felt like a stupid question given that it was obvious Sam was suffering. He satisfied himself with asking, "Is there anything I can do?"

Sam shook his head. "I'm okay."

Bobby wondered if he had ever been further from okay, and then he sighed as he realized that yes, he had, many times. He was talking to a man who had died more than once and had suffered pain the kind of which Bobby couldn't imagine. What Sam was suffering now probably didn't even seem that bad.

Bobby felt sick as he looked down at Sam and realized this was the same kid who had once called him Uncle Bobby. How could it have all gone so wrong for him?

Sam looked up at him and something like sympathy filled his gaze. "Thanks, Bobby," he said. "I think I'm going to sleep awhile now.

Bobby realized he was giving him an out and he took it. Feeling like a coward, he fled.

* * *

When Bobby next went down to check on Sam, he found him sitting on the floor against the opposite wall to the door. His legs were drawn up against his chest and his arms wrapped around them. He looked even sicker that he had before. He didn't look like he was going to be running anytime soon, and he was so weak Bobby was confident he could stop him if he tried, so Bobby unbolted the panic room door and eased it open.

"Someone's coming," Sam whispered without looking up.

"Who's coming?" Bobby asked.

Sam raised his eyes and looked to the side at a patch of empty air, "It's Bobby Singer."

Bobby frowned. "Sam…"

"I know that!" he hissed. "I didn't ask you to!"

"Sam, who are you talking to?" Bobby asked.

Sam nodded to the space beside him. "Don't worry, I won't." He turned to Bobby now and smiled. "I think it's nearly over now, Bobby. I'm feeling much better." The sight of his smile made Bobby's skin crawl. It was full of madness.

* * *

Bobby stood leaning against the panic room door, listening to Sam and trying not to lose the tenuous control he had over his equilibrium.

"I didn't mean to do it," Sam moaned. "It was Famine. I tried, I swear I tried." There was a sound Bobby didn't want to think about coming from Sam; it was close to a whimper. "Please don't." He sucked in a breath. "I know I should. I'm sorry."

Sam's earlier conversation with no one seemed tame compared to how it was now. Bobby had been listening a while, scared to interrupt Sam but scared to leave him at the same time. It was torture to see someone he cared about hurting like that.

There was nothing he could do though. Even when he tried to engage, to distract Sam from whom or what he was talking to, he failed. Sam would barely acknowledge him before returning to the conversation with an unseen someone. He could only hear Sam's side of it, but he knew from Sam's reactions and replies that the conversations weren't kind. And the people. Sometimes Sam called them by name, and Bobby hated that more than anything, as the people who were hurting Sam with their words were people Sam loved; Ellen, Jo, Dean–they had all made appearances and they clearly had nothing good to say.

"No, don't," Sam said suddenly, his voice almost scared. Bobby sucked in a breath of shock and sadness as Sam's voice rose to a shout. "Mom! Don't leave me!"

* * *

Sam was on the cot again and the conversations with people only he could see had ceased for a time. He was lying on his side now, his hands bunched in the pillow. Bobby might have believed he was sleeping if not for the way his eyes rolled under their lids.

"Sam," he said gently.

Sam's eyes opened and Bobby saw they were bloodshot. He licked his lips and croaked. "Thirsty."

"Of course," Bobby said, going to the table and picking up a bottle of water. He could tell Sam hadn't been drinking as there as many as there had been when he'd left the room last.

Sam struggled to sit on the bed, his whole body shaking. Bobby sat beside him and braced Sam with an arm on his shoulder. Sam seemed to take the support as permission to be weak, and he slumped against Bobby's side. He would never have made the contact if he was in his right mind, Bobby knew, and it worried him that Sam was so weakened and lost in what was happening to him that he allowed it now.

He uncapped the bottle and brought it to Sam's lips. "Here you go," he said gently.

Sam grabbed at the bottle with shaking hands and took a swig before spitting it onto the floor. "Water!"

"It's what you need, Sam."

"No," Sam moaned. "I need the blood. Give me the blood."

"I can't. That's why you're here, remember? You're stopping. You don't want it."

"Don't want. Need!" Sam growled. "I'll die otherwise."

"You won't," Bobby said doggedly. "You're going to be fine. We just have to get it out of your system."

"No," Sam said, pulling away from Bobby and looking him in the eye. "I won't, Bobby. This is going to kill me."

Bobby shuddered.

* * *

He was in the lounge, a glass of whiskey in his hand and an almost empty bottle on the desk in front of him. He needed a break. What was happening in the basement, Sam, had worn him down to nothing. He was tired, stressed and scared.

When Sam made the declaration that he was going to die, he'd sounded so sure. Bobby had felt that way in his life before, but he was still kicking. He tried to tell himself Sam would be okay, too. If he truly believed he wouldn't be, he would have called Dean already and told him where Sam was. He'd made a promise, but if it looked like Sam really was going to die, he would call Dean. If he got scared, if Sam was suffering too much to survive, he would make sure Dean knew.

He would give them a chance to say goodbye.

He prayed he wouldn't have to.

He raised the glass to his lips to take a sip and then dropped it, letting it smash on the floor when there was a howl of pain from below. He lurched to his feet and ran for the door to the basement, stumbling on the top step and almost falling. He got his feet under him again and pounded down the stairs. He didn't hesitate at the panic room door to check what was happening inside. He just dragged back the bolt and rushed in.

Sam was lying on his back on the cot, and he was thrashing and straining as if in awful agony. Bobby dropped to his knees beside him and caught one of Sam's grappling hands. "What is it?" he asked. "Where does it hurt?"

Sam didn't even seem to hear him. He eyes were closed and his head was straining back into the pillow and his teeth gritted.

"Sam!" Bobby barked.

The only response was another howl of pain from Sam.

"Tell me," Bobby begged, half convinced that he needed to call an ambulance, though how he would explain what was happening he didn't know.

Sam pulled his hand free from Bobby's and brought it to his stomach and clutched at himself as if he was staunching bleeding. Bobby's eye roved the area, but there was no wound, nothing.

"Sam," Bobby moaned.

Sam's lifted one hand away and brought it to his face. His eyes were horrified as he took in the clean skin. "The blood," he whispered. "Oh God."

"There's no blood," Bobby said, gripping Sam's shoulders and squeezing. "You're okay, Sam. There's nothing there."

Sam's head pressed back against the pillow again and he screamed out, one word discernible in the expression of pain. "Dean!"

* * *

Bobby couldn't leave him again. He lost track of time as he sat at Sam's side, reassuring and riding it out with him. When Sam screamed in pain, Bobby soothed him. When he was quiet, he ran damp cloths over his fevered skin. He tried to make Sam drink and rest, but it was no good. Sometimes Sam seemed to know he was there—he begged for blood—but other times he was lost inside his own head and what was happening to him. He cried and moaned, he spoke to people who weren't there, and sometimes he wept.

Bobby had never seen the man he knew so broken down. He didn't think he had ever seen _anyone_ so broken in his life. He felt helpless and alone, and more than once wished there was someone else there to ease the burden, someone to reassure _him_ that it was going to be okay.

Sam was quiet again for a while. Bobby found that easier to deal with, as he could talk and hope he was heard then. He wet the cloth in the bowl of water beside him and ran it over Sam's brow, talking nonsense about hunts he'd taken over the years and people they both knew. He steered clear of mentioning John Winchester, as he didn't want to upset Sam. So far, he didn't think the hallucinations had taken the form of Sam's father, and he didn't want to prompt it. Hearing Sam call to his mother had been painful enough.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, Sam started to seize on the cot. His elbows curled in at his sides and his legs thrashed, hammering against the thin mattress on the cot. His head rolled on the pillow and Bobby barely had a moment to realize what was happening before Sam's back arched and he drew in a long, gurgling breath and then sighed it out with a moan low in his throat. Bobby waited for the next inhale, but it didn't come. Sam thrashed still, but he didn't breathe.

"No!" Bobby growled. "Don't you dare, Sam! You hear me? Breathe!"

Sam didn't, couldn't obey. Bobby rubbed a hand over his chest, pressing down hard in hopes of triggering a breath, but none came. Sam's lips began to blue and his thrashing slowly ceased and stopped.

"Sam!" Bobby shouted. "Breathe dammit!" He brought up a fist and slammed it down over the center of Sam's chest. He hesitated a moment, holding his own breath, before doing it again.

Sam gasped in a breath; it was long and rasping and it made Bobby feel dizzy with relief. "Thank God," he whispered. "Oh, thank God." He rubbed against Sam's sternum as he drew in breath after breath, steadier by the moment.

Sam's eyes rolled under their lids and opened. His bleary gaze settled on Bobby and his brow creased. Bobby thought, or perhaps hoped, that there was lucidity in them now. "Bobby?" he croaked.

"Sam," Bobby sighed.

"What happened?"

"You had a seizure," Bobby said. "Tried to check out on me."

"Sorry."

Bobby huffed a laugh. "Don't do it again and we'll call it even for me punching you."

"Okay." Sam licked his dry lips. "Do something for me?"

"Of course," Bobby said gently. "What do you need, Sam?"

"Tell Dean…" He faltered as his eyes drifted closed.

"Tell him you're here?" Bobby asked hopefully.

Sam shook his head jerkily and he seemed to force his eyes open again. "Tell him I'm sorry."

His eyes fell closed again and Bobby raked a hand over his face. Sam sounded defeated, as if he had no more fight in him.

The fact Sam had an express ticket back to life courtesy of Lucifer didn't occur to Bobby in that moment. All he could think of was Sam's body lying in that cabin in Wyoming and the absolute devastation on Dean's face as, overtaken by his misery, he had punched Bobby.

He looked down at Sam and made a decision. If Sam was going to die, his brother was damn well going to have the chance to see him again before that happened. He was going to get a chance to say goodbye.

* * *

Dean slammed the Impala to a halt outside Bobby's place beside a crappy looking Honda. He threw open the door and practically fell out of the car in his haste. Getting his feet under him, he raced up the steps and across the porch, throwing open the door without knocking or even slowing down.

"Sam!" he shouted.

He was incensed at Bobby. From what he understood from their short phone call, Sam had been there for days, had been suffering for days. While Dean and Ellen had been going slowly mad with worry, Bobby had been hiding the news that could have saved them so much pain. They could have been there with Sam, but no, because of some bullshit promise Bobby had made, Sam had been alone with Bobby instead of surrounded by them all. They could have helped him, dammit. Bobby had said Sam was struggling, and Dean could have supported him through that. He could have lent him strength. He could have been a brother.

The kitchen and library were empty, and Dean called Bobby's name. There was no response from his oldest friend, but he heard a howl of misery that Dean knew came from his brother. Sickened, he raced down the stairs to the basement and into the panic room, then ground to a halt at what he saw. Sam was on a cot in the middle of the room, curled on his side and shaking so much he seemed to vibrate. His sweat soaked hair was plastered over his face and low moan was escaping him.

Bobby sat at his side, murmuring reassurances and soothing words. "Dean's coming, Sam. You'll be okay. He'll be here soon."

"Sammy," Dean breathed.

Bobby spun to look at him, and a look of guilt spread over his features. Dean barely paid him a moment's attention. He was fixated on his brother. It was so much worse than he could have imagined in his worst nightmares.

He strode across the room and dropped to his knees beside the cot. "Sammy," he said, his hands coming up to brush the hair from Sam's face. "It's me."

"Dean?" Sam whispered.

"Yeah. I'm here. I'm not leaving you. It's going to be okay," Dean said. Sam's eyes cracked open and fixed on him. Dean smiled with relief, and then Sam spoke and destroyed the moment. "You're not real."

"What?"

Bobby cleared his throat behind him. "He's been seeing things, Dean, people that aren't there: Ellen, you, your mother."

Dean felt sick. "My mom?"

"Yeah. He spoke to her a few times."

Dean closed his eyes for a moment, absorbed the feeling, and then opened them and reached for Sam's hand. "I'm real, Sam," he said forcefully. "I'm really here. I'm not going anywhere." He gripped Sam's hand and felt a weak squeeze in return. "That's right. It's me," he said.

Sam's grip tightened on Dean's fingers. Dean hoped it was his brother's way of forging a connection between them, but a moment later his hand fisted around Dean's to the point of pain and his back arched as he cried out in agony.

"Yeah," Bobby said sadly, "and he does that, too."

Dean leaned in close to Sam and whispered in his ear. "Not real, Sammy. Whatever's happening, it's not real. I'm real. I'm here. I've got you."

Sam's only response was to cry out again.

* * *

Dean lost track of time. Bobby came and went, bringing water for Sam and coffee for Dean.

He tried to coax Sam into drinking, but he inevitably let it trickle from his mouth without even making an effort to swallow. He didn't seem to see Dean there, though he sometimes spoke to other people that only he could see.

Ellen called a couple times, but Dean let the calls go unanswered. He had nothing good to tell her. He hadn't explained anything before leaving The Roadhouse. He'd just driven away without thought for her. When it was over, when he could be sure Sam wouldn't scream and alert Ellen to just how bad things were, he would call her. He'd let her come and see Sam for herself, but not until it was really Sam she would see and not this crippled wreck of a man. She didn't need more nightmares.

The sky through the vent in the ceiling was dark when Sam suddenly opened his eyes and fixed them on something to the side. Dean thought it was another hallucination at first, until his eyes followed Sam's gaze and he saw the angel standing there.

Gabriel looked down at Sam with an indefinable expression. "Well look at you," he said. "You really screwed the pooch this time, Winchester."

Sam seemed cognizant as he said in a hoarse voice, "Have you come to kill me?"

Gabriel shook his head. He closed his eyes and reached for Sam. Dean tried to stop him, but his hand was pushed away firmly but gently. Gabriel's hand settled on Sam's temple and he said, "I think you've been punished enough."

Sam stiffened for a moment, his back arched, and then he flopped back on the cot and his head fell to the side.

"What have you done?" Dean asked angrily even as he pressed fingers to Sam's throat, relieved to feel a strong pulse.

"I've helped," Gabriel said. "It's over now. I've cleansed him."

"Is he okay?" Bobby asked.

"Yes. He will sleep awhile, but he'll be okay."

"Thank you," Dean said fervently, looking up to the archangel just in time to see him smile slightly and disappear.

Dean shook his head and turned his attention back to his brother. He rearranged his arms so they were resting at his sides and adjusted the pillow to support his head more comfortably. He leaned in close and whispered to Sam, "It's over now, Sam. You're going to be okay. I'll be here when you wake."

* * *

Though Dean had called to say he'd found Sam and they were on their way home, Ellen didn't truly let herself believe until she heard the sound of the Impala pulling up outside. She set down her drink and rose to her feet, her heart pounding. She was almost afraid of what she was about to see. What version of Sam was coming back to her after all he'd been through.

The door opened and he paused for a moment on the threshold, lit by the light of the kitchen. He looked awful, skin pale, eyes darkly shadowed, face gaunt, as if he had dropped weight too quickly. He was her Sam though, and when she opened her arms to him, he walked forward slowly and let her hold him. After a long time of just feeling his presence, she leaned back and held his face in her hands.

"I'm sorry," he said tiredly.

She shook her head sadly. "You of all people never have to say that to me, Sam. You're my boy. Nothing you can do can make you disappoint me."

Sam bowed his head and a tear dripped down to the floor. "Thank you, Ellen." he said fervently.

Perhaps it was just wishful thinking brought on by what Dean had said, but when Sam spoke her name, it sounded a lot like _Mom_.

* * *

Lucifer stood facing the rack where until recently Sam Winchester had been shackled. There were two bodies on the floor, the bodies of former demons, but Lucifer barely registered them. His whole attention was on the empty rack. The restraints had been unbuckled not broken. Someone had _let_ him free. Who would have been so damnably stupid as to do that? The only thing Lucifer could surmise was that Dean had somehow found where Sam was being held and freed him.

That didn't explain why Sam had gone to Famine alone.

He had heard the story through the horseman's whimpers and moans of how Sam had come and taken the ring from him and killed his demon guards. That meant that Sam had at least drunk the blood; he would not have the power to kill without. Half the battle was won. Sam may be free, but he had tasted the blood again, and that was going to be his undoing.

Famine was ruined now, but that didn't matter in the grand scheme. His task was over. Sam was tainted once again and that had been the crux of Famine's role. Lucifer had instructed his demons to shove him in the same box as War. They could lament their defeats together.

It was now time for a new horseman to be brought into action.

It was time for Death.

* * *

 **So… That was rough. I hate to write withdrawal almost as much as I hate to write torture. To me, it amounts to the same thing. I thought Bobby's part in this deserved to be told though. Sorry for the angst and the monster chapter.**

 **Thank you all for the reviews and PMs for the last chapter. I really appreciate the support.**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	16. Chapter 16

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy, Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2 for all the help. You ladies rock!**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Sixteen**_

The motel was expensive for such a crap hole. It took a few days' pay to cover the night they needed. Gary knew his dad wasn't going to be happy if he realized that Gary hadn't stowed away his wages into his college fund that week. _"How's that working to the plan, son?"_

Screw the plan. He was making his own money his own way. No more flipping hamburgers and selling heart attacks to Housatonic's dumbest; he was going to be rolling in green before long. All it would take was one little bullet, which was why he was currently setting up a table of such obvious shadiness his mom would freak if she saw it. It looked like devil worship, but it really wasn't. He didn't worship Satan; he was just doing him a favor… Yeah, a favor.

"Pay attention, Gary!" Trevor snapped. "Your concentric circles aren't concentric enough."

"Dude, you're such a nerd," Gary said, laughing.

Trevor's hand snapped out and punched Gary's shoulder. It hurt. As soon as Gary was riding the giant's body, he was knocking Trevor on his ass. After he killed the other one. Kill Dean, punch Trevor, maybe do a few press-ups just to see how it felt doing it properly, some sex, definitely some sex, and then home before his mom came to wake him up for breakfast.

"I think it's okay," Nora said reassuringly. "It's more about targeting your mind than the actual layout. I think. Maybe."

"You do a lot of body swapping, do you?" Trevor said scathingly.

"Don't be a asshole," Gary said, making a concerted effort to keep his circles neater. "Screw around and I won't split the money with you."

Trevor glowered. "This plan would never have come together if it wasn't for me. I'm the one that biked over to Wells to buy the phoenix feathers."

Gary chortled. "What are you going to do? Tell your mom?"

Trevor opened his mouth to reply but Nora spoke over him. "That's enough, guys. We've got to stick together on this. We made a pact: no one person before another. We've got a job to do and we've got to be a team in this."

Gary nodded. She was right. Murder was tough enough to pull off without infighting. They had to be strong. Even though Trevor was an ass.

He set the copper mixing bowl he'd borrowed from his mom's kitchen in the center of the table and began to tip in the herbs. Trevor emptied the bag of phoenix feathers in to it—they sure looked a lot like a turkey's—and Nora lit the candles.

"Ready?" she asked Gary, her eyes wide and excited. She seemed to love magic almost as much as Gary.

"Ready," Gary said. He closed his eyes and fixed his mind on the man he could feel sleeping in the next room. The wall between them was no obstacle to his power. He lit the match and held it over the bowl and began the chant that he had practiced a dozen times. _"_ _Split in statera. Sit novam facere. Unde necesse est._ _"_ He dropped the match and flames roared up. Sparks flew and some hit the table and carpet. A bag of ingredients caught fire and smoke began to rise from the carpet.

"Oh shit!" Trevor shouted. "Shit! Shit! Shit! Gary! Gary! Gary!"

Gary stamped on the carpet while Nora ran for the bathroom. His shoe sole started to melt and he snatched the cup of water Nora brought and poured it over his foot. Trevor was slapping at the burning bag with sleeve of his jacket and cursing loudly.

It took a few moments of chaos before the fires were extinguished and they were left coughing from the smoke, and in Gary's case wheezing. He took his inhaler from his pocket and sucked gratefully on a couple pumps.

"Gary…?" Nora said nervously.

"I'm fine," Gary said. "Just need a minute."

"And a new plan," Trevor said.

"What?"

"Correct me if I'm wrong," he said, crossing his arms over his chest, "but aren't you supposed to be next door, killing right now?"

Gary looked down at his chest, his underdeveloped, _'You'll blossom eventually',_ chest. He was not a giant. He was as weedy, wheezy and weak as ever. "Oh crap," he sighed as at the same moment, a loud voice shouted from the next room. "What the hell? Why do you look like me?"

Nora and Gary exchanged a horror-struck look and spoke at the same time. "Oh crap!"

* * *

Dean was sleeping when the shouting started in the next room. "That's some kinky stuff with Gary happening next door," Dean said into his pillow.

"Lucky Gary," Sam replied with a muffled laugh.

Dean rolled over and opened his eyes. Something about the view around him seemed wrong, as if he was seeing the room from the wrong place. He remembered lying awake before, staring up at the ceiling at the water stain while he tried to switch his brain off to sleep—not an easy task given all that had happened lately. The water stain was gone though. He glanced to the side and frowned, then bolted upright, panting.

"Sam?" he questioned.

"What?" The body in the next bed rolled over and looked at him, concerned quickly morphing to anger. "What the hell? Why do you look like me?"

Dean shook his head in confusion. "I'm not the only one. You look like me."

"I do?"

Dean's gaze slid down. He was dressed in a grey undershirt and jeans, but the chest he was looking at was not his own. It was larger, broader. The denim-clad legs stretching down the length of the bed weren't his either. They were longer. His feet hung over the end of the bed. He brought a shaking hand to his face and saw the scarred knuckles and crooked fingers. He recognized them, but they were not his.

"Bastard!" Sam growled, and Dean turned in time to see him lurching out of bed and rushing at the duffel on the table. He pulled out a short knife that Dean knew had a silver blade. "You chose the wrong body to steal!"

Dean raised his hands in front of him, his mind working fast despite the panic. "Sam, it's me," he said quickly. "I swear."

"Doesn't look like you!"

"Neither do you," Dean said. "Stop, take a minute. Look at yourself."

Eyeing him suspiciously, Sam side-stepped over to the mirror and took a quick glance at it. He turned back to Dean and started, "I don't know what…" before his head snapped to the side again and his mouth dropped open.

"Yep," Dean said, "right there with ya."

Sam brought a hand to his throat and probed at it, looking awed. "Holy crap."

Dean felt his own neck, noting the line that curved across it—Sam's worst scar. It was unsettling to feel evidence of the injury that had almost killed his brother.

"How the hell did this happen?" Sam breathed, not seeming to expect an answer.

"No idea," Dean said, noting the change in his voice for the first time. It was Sam's. "I don't think it was the poltergeist though."

Sam shook his head. "Couldn't be. Ghosts don't have the power to do this."

Dean swung his legs around to the edge of the bed and stood. His head swam for a moment at the change in position and when it settled, he moved to stand beside Sam. He wasn't sure which was more unsettling, being taller than Sam or looking at his own body with someone else running the switches.

Sam looked at him, his head slightly tilted upwards, and shook his head. "This is…"

"I know," Dean said, a short laugh bursting from him. "What the hell are we going to do?"

Sam shrugged. "I have absolutely no idea. We need help."

* * *

Sam could feel Dean's eyes on him as he paced the room. He couldn't sit with the nervous energy he had buzzing through him, and he found it hard to look at his brother and see his own face looking back at him. Shamefully, one the first things he had noticed when looking at Dean in his body was just how scarred up he was. It wasn't like he never looked into a mirror, but he had seen them so much on a day to day basis that he'd become numb to them. Seeing them as an outsider was a head-trip.

There was a knock on the door and Dean got to his feet to answer while Sam glanced out of the window. Rufus' old Ford Taurus was parked outside the room. Sam had considered hard before calling the older hunter. It was the fact he'd been in the life longer than Bobby even and lived closer to where they were that persuaded him. Maybe he'd come across something like this before, though Sam suspected he would have heard about it before if he had.

Dean opened the door and a grim faced Rufus was revealed on the threshold. "Winchester," he said, nodding to Dean and then turning to Sam and smiling slightly. "Dean. Good to see you."

It wasn't like it was the first time he'd noticed how differently people reacted to him compared to Dean. It didn't bother him; it wasn't like he was expecting a hug, but it was strange. As far as he knew, Dean had met Rufus once—the night the hounds had come—and yet Rufus greeted him as in as friendly a way as Sam had ever seen. He wondered how much of it was Sam's own attitude and actions and how much was just how people reacted to Dean's more open personality.

"Wrong brother, Rufus," Sam said.

Rufus frowned. "I'm sorry, what?"

Sam sighed. "I'm Sam, that's Dean."

"And you know I really doubt it," Rufus said.

"It's true," Dean said. "We woke up and we'd been… swapped."

Rufus huffed a laugh. "That's a new one on me."

"You've never seen it before?" Sam asked, disappointed.

"No. Never. What were you doing when it happened?"

"Sleeping," Dean said.

Rufus sighed. "I meant what were you hunting."

Dean looked a little embarrassed. "Oh, possible poltergeist."

"Not that then," Rufus scrubbed a hand over his face. "We need to break it down to facts. Who've you pissed off lately?"

That was a long list, Sam thought, with the Devil, demons and angels at the top, followed by practically every other fugly on the planet. He didn't think this was down to Lucifer though, and he doubted demons had the juice to do something like this. That left angels, but what could they hope to gain other than shits and giggles out of seeing Sam and Dean stumbling around in each other's bodies?

"Pretty much everyone," Dean said grimly.

Rufus scowled. "That narrows it down to the planet then. Should be an easy fix."

"Damn kids. Could've set the whole place up!" a male voice came muffled through the wall.

"Thin walls," Rufus said. "You boys really splashed out on this place."

Sam wasn't really listening to him though. He was listening to the grumbling voice in the next room as it launched into a monologue about the youth of today and their devil worship and disrespect for other people's property. Sam opened the door and peered out to see the motel manager they'd dealt with the day before coming out of the next room with a garbage sack in his hand and walking away around the side of the hotel.

"What's going on?" Dean asked as Sam slipped out of the room and hurried into the adjoining one.

Sam didn't stop to answer. He knew he would only have a short time before the manager came back and he was following a hunch. His eyes fell on the table first and he saw a copper bowl with a blackened base and encrusted remains of whatever had been burned in it. There were scorch marks on the table and it looked like the carpet had been set alight in places. He quickly ducked out of the room and back into his own.

"What was that?" Dean asked Sam clicked the door closed.

"Witchcraft," Sam said bitterly. "It's witches that did this to us."

Rufus cursed. "Well ain't that just great."

"Not all bad," Sam said reasonably. "We got a glance at the kids going in. Couple of virgins and a camp counselor looking girl."

"You think it was the kids?" Dean asked doubtfully.

"Uh, yeah," Sam started to say, but then trailed off as a feeling of doubt crept through him. He'd seen a lot in his life, some really messed up kids, but none of them had resorted to witchcraft to deal.

The feeling and thought, so intense, brought him up short. He hadn't known a kid since he'd been one. He had only seen one messed up kid and that had been Mitch. The thought, intense and false, hadn't been his own. It was Dean's.

What the hell was happening to him?

* * *

Gary sat in the booth at the Turbo Burger joint across from the motel. The food was crap and he couldn't eat half of it because of his damned allergies, but, hey, staff discount. Nora was beside him and Trevor opposite. They were feasting on their hamburgers—complete with buns, thank you very much—and discussing the failure of their plan between bites.

"So," Gary said, pushing away his salad shake, "Gigantor is in male model's body and vice-versa."

"Yep," Trevor said. "You really screwed up, man."

Gary scowled. "Yeah, because I was the only one in that room at the time. Neither of you were there helping me."

Nora patted his arm. "It's okay, Gary. Mistakes happen."

"Not to _real_ warlocks," Trevor said snidely.

"Okay, first of all, keep your voice down," Gary hissed. "If my boss hears what you're saying they'll fire me. They canned Lucas and all he was doing was smoking weed on shift."

"True," Trevor said. "They'd sure be pissed if they found out you worship Satan."

Gary kicked him under the table. "Shut up!"

Trevor looked smug and Gary decided there and then that Trevor wasn't getting a dollar of the reward money. In fact, if he kept annoying Gary, he'd be the next one killed. It would probably be easy to kill again after taking down Dean.

"I don't worship Satan," he hissed. "I'm just… working a job for him."

"Working a job?" Trevor said scathingly. "Who are you even?"

Gary closed his eyes, summoned calm and said, "Like Nora said, we're a team, so we need to work together to fix this."

"We could try again," Nora ventured. "Put them back in the right bodies and then do the spell again."

"I don't think so," Gary said thoughtfully. "I think we just need to lure them out somewhere and take the shot."

Trevor nodded energetically. "Yeah, take the shot. Let's get this done."

Gary rolled his eyes. "You're such a dumbass."

"Says you," Trevor said.

"Guys!" Nora said loudly. "Look at that."

Gary followed her gaze out of the window and across the street. The giant was walking away from the motel down the street and the male model was climbing into the car. They'd changed out of their street clothes and into suits.

"Funeral do you think?" Gary asked.

"Not yet," Trevor said with glee. "Give us a little longer and there will be though." He slid out of his seat and crossed to the door.

"Trevor," Nora hissed. "Where are you going?"

He looked impatient as he replied, "I'm going hunting. You coming?"

Gary and Nora exchanged a glance and followed him out.

They followed the giant down the street, through Main Street towards the park. Trevor was muttering under his breath as they walked, "Just a little further. Come on, somewhere nice and quiet."

As if he had heard the whispered instruction, the Winchester turned right through the park gates and came to a stop in a small copse of trees. Trevor hurried ahead of the others, reaching into his duffel.

The giant was leaning against a tree when they caught up to him, and he looked a little impatient as he said, "C'mon then, guys. Let's talk. I'm not—" He cut off as the dart shot from Trevor's tranquilizer gun hit him on the side of his scarred throat. His eyes rolled as he topped forward to the ground.

"Whoa, Trevor!" Nora said. "What was that?"

"That was awesome," Trevor replied. "Hell, let's do it again."

Gary looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "Maybe later. Let's get him out of here."

* * *

Dean felt his body being moved and positioned upright but he couldn't seem to wake himself up properly.

"Damn, he's heavy," a voice said.

"Damn, you're dumb," another replied. "Have you seen the size of him? Of course he's heavy."

His eyes cracked open and he was met with a pasty-faced kid who was wheezing with effort. Behind him stood a blonde-haired boy who was smiling smugly. There was a girl, too, chewing her lip and looking tense. They were the kids he'd seen at the motel the day before.

"What…" Dean slurred. "What are you doing?"

"Killing you," the blonde boy replied.

"Trevor!" the girl hissed.

"What?" the kid, Trevor, asked. "It's not like it's a secret. He's going to find out when it happens anyway."

"Yeah, but…"

"What, Gary?" he asked irritably. "Not having second thoughts are you?"

"No," Gary said, though Dean thought there was doubt in his voice.

Dean closed his eyes and tried to focus his mind. It was hard as he was still feeling the drugs coursing through his system.

He had been heading to the school to try to track down the kids under the guise of a fed. Sam had gone by the PD to do the same while Rufus took to the streets. He'd barely gotten a hundred yards down the street before he'd felt them following him. He'd stopped and waited for them to catch up, thinking maybe he could get them to talk reasonably. That was when the blonde kid had pulled the tranq gun. Now, looking around, he saw he was in a basement of some sort, and he was tied down tight.

"Okay," he said slowly. "Leaving aside teen angst and rebellion, why do you want to kill me?" As the words left his mouth, Dean wondered at them. That wasn't the sort of thing he usually said to kids, and definitely not to people who were threatening to kill him. It sounded more like something Sam would say than him.

The blonde kid broke into his thoughts as he snapped out a fist and punched him across the jaw. It was more annoying that painful. This body could handle pain, and the kid wasn't exactly built. "We're not rebelling. We're taking control of our lives," he said.

"Okay," Dean said slowly. "And on which planet does murder equate to controlling your life?"

Trevor shook his head slowly. "It's not about the murder. It's about money. See, we've been contracted, and we're going follow through."

"Contracted by whom?" Dean asked.

"Satan," Trevor said proudly.

Dean groaned. This was a new level of screwed up. Lucifer taking Sam and having him tortured he understood, it was _him_ doing it, but hiring kids to murder for him seemed a little low rent. "You've seen Lucifer?" he asked.

"No," Gary admitted with a shudder. "We've spoken to his demon though."

"We were down here," Nora said, "playing with Gary's book, when Gary went into this kind of trance. He drew this." She held up a pencil sketch of Dean's face.

"Yeah," Gary took up the tale. "There was this voice in my head saying you had to be stopped. The demons promised me a reward if I killed you. So, we made our plan."

"And the weird thing is," Trevor said, " that Gary can't even draw."

"Yeah," Dean said slowly. " _That's_ the weird part."

Trevor struck out again and punched him, against Nora's protests.

"So, you swapped me and Sam," Dean said. "Doesn't that strike you as supremely dumb? Put the better hunter and fighter in the body you want to kill?"

Gary and Nora exchanged a glance while Trevor looked indifferent.

"You know," Nora said slowly, "he might have a point."

"It wasn't our first choice of outcome," Gary admitted. "We were supposed to be swapping me with your brother. I was supposed to run the giant and kill you that way, Trojan horse style."

"But Gary screwed up," Trevor said. "Still, we can make it work. I figure we wait for your brother to come save you, and kill him."

"Maybe not… " Gary said in a musing tone. "Does it have to be the body that's destroyed or the soul? I mean, we didn't exactly as the demons for specifics."

"No one knew you'd screw up so bad," Trevor said scathingly.

Looking pinched and annoyed, Gary went on. "We could kill this one and maybe that'd do it."

An overwhelming feeling rushed through Dean. It was like a migraine headache of emotion and fear followed by a thought that seemed to rip his head apart. ' _Not Dean! Not again. They can't kill Dean. I can't take it. Kill them.'_

Dean sucked in a shaky breath. The thought, which was a more intense realization than he had ever felt in his life, was not his own; it was Sam's. That absolute panic and need to protect came from his brother. Or at least his brother's body. What the hell was happening to him?

"We could kill them both," Trevor said. "Take this body out and then the other one next."

Dean stared up at him, his chest still heaving from the rush of emotion he'd felt transferred from Sam's body to him. "You can't do this."

"I get it," Trevor said conversationally. "No one wants to die. But we really have no choice."

"He'll kill you," Dean said. "My brother will end you." He almost hated to admit that it was true. He knew now, after what he'd felt, that Sam would do it.

Nora looked scared and Gary uncertain, but Trevor, idiot that he was, looked amused. "I don't think so. We have the protection of demons."

"You really, _really_ don't," Dean argued. "Demons take what they want and do what they want. They don't give a crap about humans. They wouldn't even take the time to thank you before taking you out, too." He sighed. "I'm trying to do you a favor here, kids. You kill me, it'll suck, but it won't be the end for me. Believe me. See, you might think you have demons' protection, but I have angels', and they actually follow through. And my brother _will_ kill you. Trust me."

"He'll have to find you first," Trevor said smugly.

At that moment the door was kicked open and Sam appeared on the threshold. Dean didn't think his own face had ever worn a look of such devastating fury before as it did now under Sam's control.

Dean turned away from the unsettling sight and looked at Trevor. "Looks like he found me."

Trevor blanched and reached for something on the table behind him. Dean shouted a warning but Sam was already moving. He crossed the room and grabbed the tranquilizer gun from Trevor's hand. Flipping it in his hand, he aimed at Trevor's leg and pulled the trigger. The dart imbedded itself kid's thigh and his eyes rolled back in his head as he dropped hard and face-first on the floor. Nora cried out but Gary looked relieved. Dean guessed he was as glad of the break from Trevor's crap as he was.

Sam aimed the gun at Gary next and Dean called out, "No, Sam! We need that one."

Sam turned it to Nora and tears sprang to her eyes. "This one?" he asked.

"No, she's okay," Dean said. "Just easily led."

"Okay," Sam said, lowering the gun then walking to Dean and getting to work on the knots holding him. "Did you find out what happened?"

"Yeah," he nodded his head at Gary. "Brainless over there was trying to swap you out with him so he could kill me." Again that feeling of fury and fear rolled over him. "He screwed up which pulled the Freaky Friday crap on us."

Sam turned his glare on Gary and he couldn't blame the kid from flinching back. "You were going to kill my brother?" he asked in a menacing voice.

Gary blanched. "Uh…"

"Sam," Dean said gently. "We need him alive to put us back."

Sam nodded stiffly. "Okay. Get to work, kid. Screw it up this time, I will make you regret it."

Gary nodded energetically. "Absolutely. I'll fix it."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "You better."

* * *

Sam had known when Dean didn't come back from his trip to the school that something was wrong. He'd gotten Ash on the case at once, and his friend had delivered an address. From there it had been simple enough to find him and scare the crap out of the kids holding him. The girl was currently sitting in the corner, wiping at her eyes occasionally and sniffling. The blonde kid was still unconscious on the floor, drooling onto the concrete, and Gary and Dean seemed to be locked in some kind of bizarre therapy session while they waited for Rufus to come with ingredients to do the spell to swap them back.

"He's so intense," Gary was saying. "It's all about the big picture all the time. It's like I have no choice in my own destiny. It's all been decided for me. You don't know what it's like."

Dean shot an amused glance to Sam, but Sam didn't return it. He was thinking about what the kid was saying. He could relate. He hadn't ever really had a choice in his destiny either. From the age of six months, he had been bound on course to be the man he was now, a hunter with demon blood in him. The demon blood had been Yellow-Eyes and the hunting his father, and though he loved his Dad and missed him with an almost physical yearning still, he had bound Sam to the life of a hunter.

Now, for a moment, Sam wondered how his life would have ended up had he accepted his place at Stanford. Would he have made it as a lawyer? Would he have fallen in love maybe? Would he be married with children now? Would he have made a good dad or would he have screwed that up, too?

He wondered if this kid would be asking himself the opposite of these questions in ten years, fifteen, when he was settled in his life as an engineer with his wife and kids around the dinner table?

"It doesn't have to be _his_ plan," he said quietly.

Gary's head snapped up. "What?"

"It's your life, kid," Sam said. "Make your own plan. What would you want to do with your life?"

His face lit up with a smile. "I want to be a real witch. A powerful one."

"No," Sam said slowly. "Do that and I will come back and kill you. Try something a little less satanic."

Gary looked away as Dean barked a laugh.

"What I mean is, make your life what you want. Believe me, it's not easy to live otherwise."

Dean's eyes were sad and Sam shook his head slightly.

"Take care of Nora," Dean said, standing and walking toward Sam at the door. "I want to talk to my brother."

They walked across the basement and Sam came to rest leaning against the furnace. "What?" he asked.

"Okay," Dean said, "in the interests of full disclosure I have something to tell you. I don't know how it is for you, but this body swap is somehow more than physical for me. I've felt and heard things that aren't me."

"Yes," Sam said calmly, though inside he was reeling. What had Dean heard and felt from him? Which of his nefarious deeds had Dean now insider access too?

"Have you… poked around?"

Sam shook his head. "Not really. I've just felt a little different about these kids. You?"

"I felt a few things," he said. "Nothing bad, just different reactions to situations. You felt bad for the kids?"

"Yeah, I can kinda relate to them. Weird as all hell." He eyed Dean, wanting to ask his question and at the same time afraid of the answer.

"Ask, Sammy."

"Do you miss it?" he asked. "The kids, that life, being a civilian?"

Dean smiled slightly. "You know you could get the answer by just looking, right?"

"Felt wrong."

"Do it," Dean encouraged. "Look."

Sam hesitated for a moment before curiosity won out. He closed his eyes and brought to mind the feeling he'd had when talking to the kid. It was like the answer was there waiting for him. He felt pride, compassion, need to protect, sometimes anger, and yearning for something else. Sam probed the yearning feeling and his own face was brought to his mind, his face from many years ago, before Dean was left behind. All the other feelings were tainted by that child's face. Sam opened his eyes and looked at Dean, at his own adult face and that feeling of yearning was replaced by a kind of peacefulness and a thought of just, _"Sammy."_

"See?" Dean asked. "Not a single regret."

Sam nodded. "Yeah. I see." He cleared his throat. "Have you, uh, looked, too?"

Dean looked apologetic. "I didn't mean to. It just sorta happened for me." He blinked and his eyes looked wet. He reached out a hand and laid it on Sam's arm. "Thank you, Sam," he said fervently. "Thank you. And me, too."

Sam frowned. What had he seen? Was it the fact that Sam wouldn't put any person in life before him? That he would protect Dean to the end, whatever that cost him? Was it that, in all his life, Sam had never cared for someone as much as he did his brother? Because that was all true. They were family. That meant something.

He grappled for something to say, but at that moment Rufus stomped into the room, his arms full of paper sacks of ingredients. "Okay," he said, "I got all you need, but let me get out of the room before you start. I don't want to be body swapped with a damn Winchester if Harry Potter here screws up again."

Dean laughed and turned away and Sam took a breath before doing the same.

* * *

"I don't know about you, but I need a drink," Sam said as they turned into the parking lot of The Roadhouse. They'd made the last leg of the drive back from Massachusetts taking turns at wheel and sleeping in shifts, and it felt good to be home.

"Beer sounds awesome," Dean said tiredly. "Then sleep and one of Ellen's breakfasts in the morning. Arrange that for me and I will be a happy man."

"Yeah, I'll put a mint on your pillow too, shall I?" Sam asked with a smile. "If you want Ellen to cook for you, you have to ask her. You choose a diner over her food once; she'll never forget it."

Dean groaned. "Aww, man, she's going to be—"

Whatever he said next, Sam didn't hear as he was focused on the rustle he'd heard in the bush and what sounded like a soft breath, a sigh.

In all likelihood, it was a bar patron using the bushes as a restroom. Some people did that, and it made Ellen madder than all hell. Sam wasn't sure though. His senses were alert for everything and even as he said, "Yeah, she's going to give you hell," he was listening hard, hard enough to hear his name spoken in a sigh.

He clapped Dean on the shoulder and said, "You better get in there and start with the groveling," and then leaned in close and whispered, "There's someone out here. Go inside. Call Castiel here. Get the weapons from the stash."

"But…"

"Go on," he said loudly and brightly. "She's waiting. I've just got to grab something from the car."

He could feel Dean's struggle in the tension of his shoulder and he silently willed him to do as he said. His own tension was high. Whoever was out there, they were there for Sam, he knew it. He didn't think it was Lucifer. He doubted the archangel would linger in bushes. But it was definitely someone.

"Fine," Dean sighed and stepped out from under Sam's grip to walk to the back door. He pulled it open, stepped through and then it closed behind him with a clunk.

Sam drew a breath, and made for the trunk again. There was a wealth of weapons inside, but before he could reach it, there was a rustle and crunch of footsteps on the twig strewn ground. Sam reached for the knife in his boot but before he could do more than bend, he heard a voice.

"You're not going to need that."

Sam froze, bent comically with his hand reaching for the weapon. He knew that voice. That voice was impossible. He straightened slowly and blinked into the gloom, his whole body shaking.

The man stepped out of the bushes into the dim light that came from the shaded kitchen window. Sam swallowed hard, and his heart seemed to beat in his throat.

"You got nothing to say to me?" the man asked.

Sam spoke in a rasping voice. "Dad?"

John Winchester nodded and smiled. "Hello, Son."

* * *

 **So… Day before Alpha and Omega aired, I finished this chapter. Next day, watched the episode and swore like a sailor. I thought I was being sooooo clever….**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	17. Chapter 17

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy, Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2 for the beta and pre-reader help. See AN at the end for some exciting news.**

 _ **Chapter Seventeen**_

Cold air rushed into John Winchester's flattened lungs, choking him. He tried to push himself up to his knees, to give himself room to breathe, but he didn't have the strength. He flopped back to the ground, his face mashing into the dirt and grass. His hands fisted in the cold earth and he turned his head to the side. The polished black shoes beside his face made him force his eyes upwards to look at the man standing beside him. He was so thin he was skeletal. His skin stretched was tight over hollow cheeks and his bony hands gripped the head of a cane. He bore an air of power such as John had never felt. He knew this wasn't a man to cross.

The sight and threat of the man gave John the strength to push himself to a kneeling position and then to stand, though he wavered. The other man made no attempt to steady him. He just watched John struggle as if he were a piece of mildly interesting performance art.

"Who are you?" John asked.

"I am Death."

"You mean you're a reaper?"

"No. I am the being reapers bow to. I am the horseman Death." He tilted his head to the side curiously as John reached into the back of his pants for a weapon. There was none there. "I mean you no harm."

"You know the name makes that a little hard to believe."

His cheeks lifted with a smile. "And yet I am not lying. Bringing you back to life just so I could kill you again would seem a little redundant, don't you think?"

"You brought me back to life?"

Death nodded. "I did."

"Why?"

"Because I needed you; your sons need you."

"Dean?" John asked. "He's okay?"

"No one is okay," Death said. "The devil walks free. The apocalypse is upon us. Both of your sons need you now more than ever."

"Sammy is dead," he said, his voice strained.

He had seen his son take the shot in that dark cemetery. His son had beaten Yellow-Eyes down and turned the gun on himself to rid the world of the greatest evil it had ever known. Sam had died, and John had searched Heaven for him for endless lifetimes. They both had, him and Mary, but the only versions they had found were the baby and young man of their memories in their own heaven. He knew Sam was there somewhere, though, no matter what ran through Sam's veins, because he had to be—the alternative was unimaginable. He just hadn't found him yet.

"Sam lives," Death said.

"You saved him, too?" John looked around as if he would see Sam there. There was no sign though. Death and John appeared to be alone in a small forest clearing. "Where is he?"

"I did not save him. Dean did. I was not… active at the time."

"Where is he?" John asked fervently. He needed to see him, them. He had to see his boys. He needed it like he needed oxygen.

"Currently, they are both on their way back to Harvelle's Roadhouse. I will take you there in time. First, we need to talk."

"Take me to my sons!" John demanded.

A dark shadow passed over Death's face. "Remember who you are talking to, Winchester. I am not your subordinate. I am a being far greater than your stunted human mind is capable of comprehending."

John felt a flicker of fear that he tried and failed to quash. "I'm sorry," he said reluctantly. "I just… my boys, you know?"

"No," Death said. "Not really."

"I need to see them," John said.

"In time," Death said. "First, I want to speak to you about the message you are going to pass on to them."

John's eyes narrowed. "What's the message?" He was worried what it could be, seeing as it was coming from _the_ actual horseman Death.

Death lifted his hands in front of him and John saw a fine chain and cuffs of golden light linking his wrists. "Tell them about this, my bonds. Make sure they know I am not always acting of my own accord, but I still have some vestige free will. I am not their enemy. I am their salvation."

"Death is their salvation?" John asked in a growl.

"In a way, yes. But not their mortality."

John liked to think of himself as an intelligent man, but he was at a loss. All he knew was that it sounded bad for his boys.

"Tell Sam that, when it is time, I will have what he needs," Death went on.

"What does he need?"

"It is not time for you to know yet, but when the time comes, you'll understand." Death smiled slightly. "Are you ready to see your sons now?"

John was torn. He wanted to know more about what it was Sam apparently needed, but at the same time, he was desperate to see them. Ultimately, he was given no real choice. Death laid a hand on his arm and John felt the ground beneath his feet disappear for a moment before he was slammed back to earth. He had moved. He was now outside the rear of The Roadhouse and the rumble of a familiar engine was in his ears.

"Enjoy your time with them, John Winchester," Death said.

John turned to look at him, but he was already gone. The sound of the Impala drew closer and he instinctively stepped back into the bushes. He thought his reunion with his boys should be maneuvered carefully. They should not find him waiting for them when they drove up.

The car came into view and pulled to a stop. With remembered creaks, the doors opened and his boys climbed out.

They were so different to how he remembered them. The last time he had seen Dean, outside of the devastated man he had been in that cemetery, he had been walking out of his office at the end of a working day. John had sat in his car on the other side of the street, just watching his son without being seen himself. It had not been the first time he'd done it; whenever he was in the area, he made the journey to check on him. Dean had been tired after what John guessed was a long day, but he'd also looked satisfied, as if it had been worth it.

His last living memory of Sam had been harder. He had been lying almost dead in that hospital bed, the sick wound on his neck a horror against his white skin. But he was so alive now, so happy as he teased his brother, such a stark difference to the man he'd spent the last four years of his life with. It made John see just how much Sam had needed Dean in his life—he was happy now. John hadn't been able to do that for him.

John sighed.

Sam heard. Though he kept his smile and answered Dean in a perfectly relaxed manner, his body became tense. John could see the subtle signs. His son was an even better hunter that he had been before, better than John, better than anyone. He was the best he'd ever seen.

He watched Sam lean in close to Dean and saw his lips move as he whispered what John was sure were instructions. _'That's right, Sammy,_ he thought. ' _Keep the civilian safe and get help.'_ He sighed Sam's name.

"Go on," Sam said loudly and brightly. "She's waiting. I've just got to grab something from the car."

Reluctantly, John could tell, Dean walked through the back door, leaving Sam and John alone. Sam's expression darkened and he made for the trunk. John couldn't resist the pull to his son. He took a step forward and Sam reacted quickly. He bent for the weapon he had concealed in his boot, and John spoke. "You're not going to need that."

Sam froze, still reaching for the weapon. He shook as he straightened and blinked into the gloom.

John knew it was time to reveal himself. He stepped forward, out of the bushes, and he saw Sam's face pale in the light from the kitchen window as he caught sight of him.

"You got nothing to say to me?"

"Dad?" Sam rasped.

John nodded and smiled. "Hello, Son."

For a moment, Sam's hands lifted and he took a step forward, as if he was going to step into John's embrace, and John wanted it so much, but then Sam stiffened and his expression darkened. "Lucifer."

"No," John said mildly. "It's me."

"The hell it is!"

He should have expected it. He had trained his son as a hunter and he had developed into the best without John's help. Of course he wouldn't believe it was him when there were other options than a man brought back to life. But he still felt a pang of grief when Sam bent and pulled the silver switchblade from his boot—his seventeenth birthday gift.

He came at John with it raised and John held up his hands. "Son, listen to me. I am not a shapeshifter, I am not Lucifer"—and how bizarre was it that he was saying that—"it's really me."

Sam lurched at him with the blade held out, and John dodged him. He thought he would have no trouble evading his son, he had taught him all he knew about fighting, but Sam seemed to have picked up some tips from brawlers in their time apart—moves John would never have allowed in Sam's training days. Sam's uppercut caught him across the chin. The force behind it was immense. His head rocked back and a tooth cut into his lip.

He spat blood on the ground as he staggered back, waiting for the next blow, but it didn't come. Sam had frozen in place with the blade held lax at his side. John had no idea what was happening, but he took advantage of the situation by kicking Sam's hand and making him drop the knife. Sam seemed to come back to life again. He reached for the knife and John shoved him bodily away, picking it up himself. Sam's teeth curled back in a snarl and he rushed John, "Shapeshifter!"

John wasn't sure what had changed Sam's mind about him being Lucifer, but he was grateful for it as he had something he could work with. His fist met Sam's stomach as he reached him and the air huffed out of Sam in a rush—disapproving or not, John could also brawl. Sam staggered and a hand came to his gut.

"Look, son," John said. "Look!" He checked to make sure Sam's eyes were on him before he brought the tip of the silver knife to his arm and pressed down. The skin parted and blood welled in the wound, dripping down to the grass.

Sam's eyes were wide as they followed its path then an expression of stubborn denial settled over his face. Sam was the most damn pigheaded kid he'd ever known. "What are you?" he asked in a low voice.

"Your father," John said.

"You can't be," Sam said.

At that moment, the back door opened and three people rushed out: Dean, Ellen, and an accountant in a trenchcoat. Ellen gasped as she saw him and reached out to steady herself on Dean's shoulder. The accountant's lips parted in a comical expression of surprise and Dean's face became ashen.

"Castiel," Sam grunted, his hand still on his stomach. "What is he?"

The accountant looked from John to Sam and then Dean. "This is John Winchester. This is your father."

John saw a flicker of hope in Sam's face. "Not Lucifer?"

Castiel looked at him sympathetically. "No, Sam. It's really him."

Sam's eyes fell on John and for a moment time seemed to stop. John could see so many emotions broiling in Sam's eyes, pain, happiness, fear and need, and he raised his arms to him. Sam crossed the distance between them with long strides and stepped into John's waiting embrace.

He clung to his son, his living, breathing, incredible son, and just felt the relief and miracle of him being there alive. Sam began to shake slightly, and John's hand came up to cup the back of his head, cradling him.

"It's okay, Sammy," he said quietly.

He heard a hitched breath and looked across to see Ellen swiping an impatient hand over her face, hiding her tears. He smiled at her and then his eyes moved on to Dean. He looked happy, relieved perhaps, which quickly turned to worry when a man appeared behind Sam.

"Well, lookie here," the man said. "It's a family reunion. Love them."

Sam yanked himself out of John's hold and rounded on the visitor. "Gabriel!"

The man, Gabriel, smiled. "Don't worry, Sam. I'm not here to hurt. I just need to borrow your dad for a minute. We'll be right back."

"I'm not going anywhere with you," John growled.

Gabriel laughed. "You really don't have a choice."

He brushed Sam aside, making him stumble, and grabbed John's shoulder. John felt the same disconcerting sensation of being moved that he'd felt with Death and then he was blinking in the dim light of a familiar room with blue walls and a white cot.

Sam's nursery.

* * *

Sam ran. Almost as soon as Gabriel and John disappeared, so did Sam, again.

Dean wanted to go looking for his brother, but he knew that was about what he needed, not Sam. What Sam needed was to be free to let himself feel, to let the mask fall again. Dean just needed to feel like he was doing something.

Without Sam to take care of, he set to work tuning the Impala's engine. While he worked he wondered what his father was seeing at that moment. There was so much that Gabriel would want him to know, things that neither he nor Sam were proud of. But Dean wanted to be able to tell John about them himself.

After Gabriel had helped Sam through the withdrawal, Dean's feelings towards him had changed from unformed dislike and anger to gratitude. Now he was straight back to anger. Gabriel was cheating them. It was their place to tell John what he'd missed, not Gabriel's. And they would have if Gabriel had given them more than a minute with him.

He was deep in the engine when he heard the back door slam. He pulled his head out from under the hood and saw his father standing behind him. He knew at once that Gabriel had spared them nothing as John looked furious.

"Where is Sam?" he asked.

Dean's immediate reaction was anger in return. "Not here."

"Where is he?" His voice was measured, careful.

Dean shrugged, knowing that would incense his father more but not caring. "Running."

"Hiding?"

Dean straightened his spine. "Sam doesn't hide." That was a lie. Sam hid all the time, at least he had. He would resort to the mask and hide his fear, his anger, his sadness, and not let himself share it with the people who loved him. He was better about that now, at least he had been. Who knew what he would be like now John was back and angry.

John huffed a laugh. "Not before, maybe, but now… That angel showed me enough to prove you're lying. Sam runs and he hides."

"Wonder where he gets that from," Dean muttered.

"What did you say?"

Dean raised his voice. "I said I wonder where he gets that from."

"You calling me a coward?"

Dean's fury rose, and his voice was harsh as he answered. "Are you calling Sam one? You have no idea, _no_ _idea_ what he's been through."

"I know everything," John argued.

"You can't. If you did, you wouldn't be calling Sam a coward. He has done so much and been through so much and the only thing he's ever been a coward about is feeling. He does hide; he hides himself from the people he loves, at least he did, because his life screwed him up so bad he thought that was the only way to cope. It has taken nearly four years to get him to open as much as he has, and I swear, if you ruin that, I will…"

John raised an eyebrow. "You'll what?"

Dean sighed, defeated; he had no threat fitting the crime. "If you ruin that, we will never forgive you," he said, no threat, just a promise. "You can't call him a coward because you weren't here. You didn't see what happened and you don't know how he felt. I'm guessing Gabriel showed you all the shit that happened, all the things we did wrong, but I'll bet he skimmed over the stuff that really matters, like what happened to Sam after you died. He showed you what happened after _I_ died, right? He showed you the blood and demons, but did he show you all the people Sam saved?"

"Yes," John said. "He showed me what Sam did with his damned powers."

"Then how can you be mad at him?" Dean asked, honestly confused. "Yeah, he screwed up, but he was acting for the best."

"Same way you can be mad at me when I was acting for the best."

Dean frowned. "How is you blaming Sam acting for the best?"

"I'm talking about me leaving you," John said. "That's what you're really angry about, not how I feel about what Sam did."

"We're not talking about that," Dean said, mindful of just how much he sounded like his brother in that moment.

"We are," John said doggedly. "You're pissed at me because of what I did to you. I understand it. I—"

"You don't understand shit," Dean said angrily.

"I left you for a reason, Dean."

"That, right there, is bullshit! You don't abandon people you love!"

"You were living a good life. You were doing really well in school and you had a girl. I couldn't take that from you for the life we lived. I saw it all stretched out ahead of you when I came to that place —school, college, life, and you deserved it at last. I wanted to you to have that life."

"I could have had both!" Dean shouted. "If that's what you'd wanted for me, you'd have found a way to make it work. Instead, you left me behind like unwanted baggage." His face crumpled. "You took Sam away."

"I'm sorry," he said. "But you're wrong. If I'd taken you back with me, you'd have ended up a hunter. You deserved better."

Dean glared at him, his face coloring as he said, "And yet you had no problem letting Sam be a hunter. He could've had college, too. He's a damn genius and you know it. But you wouldn't let him have it. You made sure he stayed glued to The Demon's tail with you."

"Because I had no choice!" John shouted. "I needed Sam with me. I had to…"

"What?" Dean asked. "Have a side-kick to make you feel good about yourself? A partner to share the load?"

"I needed to watch over him. Sam was never like you. He needed me to guide him."

Dean stared into his father's eyes, seeing the lie. There was more he wasn't saying. An inkling of suspicion crept through him, and he swallowed hard. "Did you know about the blood?" He knew the answer at once as John cast his eyes downward. He wanted to vomit. "You knew. Why didn't Sam?"

"I couldn't tell him," John said, and his voice was almost mournful now. "He was dealing with the visions, and that was already too much for him to take. I couldn't add more on to that."

"That's bullshit."

"No, it isn't," John insisted. "I love Sam as I love you. You boys were everything. I let you go because I loved you and I held onto Sam, I hid the information from him, for the same reason."

"You should never have hidden it," Dean said.

"And I should never have left you?" John asked. "Don't you think your life was better because I did?"

"No," Dean said firmly. "Losing Sam was not worth the experiences I had."

John shook his head sadly. "Maybe not, but I can't regret it. When I saw the life you had made, I knew I made the right choice. You were magnificent, Dean."

Dean merely glared at him.

"I'm sorry you feel like I let you down," John said carefully. "But I only did it because I loved you. I wanted you to have better, even if that meant taking me and Sam away. But I want you to know, I am so proud of what you became. Not just with the kids, but with Sam, too. You saved him."

Dean knew he was talking about the deal. "You did the same thing."

"I'm his father," John said steadily. "It's my job,"

"I'm his brother," Dean replied. "It's mine, too."

"Thank you," John said, and when he raised his arms almost hopefully, Dean stepped into them. He felt the warmth and strength of his father, and he let himself be comforted by it in a way he hadn't since he was a child.

When he pulled back, he said, "Don't be mad at Sammy. Don't blame him. He can take it from anyone else in the world but you."

"I don't," John sighed. "Not really."

"You don't?" Dean questioned.

"No," John said. "I hate what's happened, it's a disaster, but it wasn't Sam's fault. He was trying to save."

"He was," Dean agreed, impassioned. "He was trying to save me and then the world. None of us knew what would happen."

John nodded slowly. "I guess it's time I told him that."

* * *

Sam had run until he felt sick and then ran a little more. It was only when he passed a familiar farmhouse—the place Culpa had held him in—that he made himself stop. He stood for a while, staring at the building, and wondering if that was one of the things Gabriel would be showing John. Would that screw-up be worth Gabriel's amusement or would he be too busy showing Sam's greater mistakes—blood, demons, Lilith, Lucifer, the apocalypse at his feet?

Whatever he was to show, it would be the truth, and that was what Sam was running from. He had his real, living breathing father back, and he had run from him because he was scared to see the shame and anger in his face when he found out what Sam had done.

It wasn't that he wouldn't have told John himself, but he would have given himself an hour with a father who didn't hate him first. That would have been a gift. He couldn't have that though, and now, as he stared at the reminder of his failure and shame as a hunter, he realized he needed to face up to what he had done.

He turned and started towards The Roadhouse.

When he got back, there was a light burning in the kitchen, and Sam knew that was where he would find his father. He braced himself and entered through the back door.

John was sitting at the table with a bottle of whiskey and two clean glasses in front of him. As Sam entered, he unscrewed the cap and poured generous measures in each glass. "I hear you're a whiskey man now," he said conversationally.

Sam sat down opposite him. "Yeah," he said quietly.

John slid a glass over to him and Sam took it and took a sip. It warmed his throat, grounding him in the moment instead of his thoughts.

"So," he said, "I'm guessing Gabriel showed you everything."

"I think so," John said, "and what he didn't, Dean told me."

Sam bowed his head. "I am so sorry, Dad."

"I know you are," John said mildly. "And I understand what happened."

Sam looked up. He couldn't understand why he sounded so calm. "I started the apocalypse!"

"I'm aware."

"Then why aren't you mad?" He cursed the childish quality to his voice.

"I am, but not at you," John said. "I am pissed at what happened, but you didn't know, son. You were killing a demon, doing what I had primed you to do since you were a child." He fell silent and Sam looked up. "I can be mad if you want," he said.

Sam nodded.

"Okay, let's talk about that demon bitch Ruby," he said. "How were you taken in by her? I trained you better than that. And the blood. After all you knew about the other special children, how could you not know that would end in disaster? Look at what became of them. How could you…" He trailed off. "You don't need me to spell it out, Sam. You screwed up. But you're not the only one. We all share the blame in this. I took you to Miner's Delight, meaning you were almost killed. That set the path that led to Maryland. Go back further. If I'd let you go to college, you wouldn't have been a hunter. The seals would never have been broken because Dean wouldn't have been able to break the first. I should have let you have the life you deserved, too."

Sam shook his head "No, Dad…"

"Yes. I am the one that set you on the path that ended with this. All I ask is that you forgive me."

"There's nothing to forgive," Sam said quickly.

"That's what I am trying to say," John said. "You didn't mean for it to happen. I didn't mean for it to happen. The only ones to blame are the demons."

Sam wiped a hand over his face, cursing his tears.

"There's something else I need to apologize for," John said. "That's Dean."

"What about him?"

"I should have never taken him away from you. I didn't see until now how much damage that would do. I have so much pride for his life, but I hate that it came at the price of your happiness. You should have been together."

"We should have," Sam said, "but I understand. I wanted, want, better for him, too."

"Maybe one day," John said. "Right now there are things we need to deal with."

"Like the world," Sam said.

"Yes, son, like the world."

* * *

When the last of the patrons had left, Dean shut up the bar while Ellen switched off the jukebox and Castiel stood sentinel in the corner. It had been one of the hardest things Ellen ever done to keep playing at normal while she knew Sam and John were talking in the kitchen. She wanted to be there to soften the blow for Sam, to support him as John vented as he surely would, but Dean said they needed to talk alone, so she left them alone.

She set to work wiping down the bar counter when there was movement at the door and Sam and John came in. Sam looked wrecked. His eyes were red-rimmed and tired, and John didn't look much better. She wanted to go to Sam, to hold him and to love on him, but she knew he wouldn't accept it.

She was relieved to see he accepted Dean's hand on his shoulder though and his questioning look. He nodded in return, indicating that he was okay.

"We all need to talk," John said, taking a seat at the table that had been his many years ago and then Sam's and now theirs.

Ellen set down her cloth and went to sit beside him. Dean and Sam fetched a bottle and glasses and then came to sit with them.

John cleared his throat roughly and fixed his eyes on Ellen. "There's things we need to talk about, but first I want to thank you."

Ellen raised an eyebrow. "The John Winchester I knew wasn't big on thanks."

John nodded his acceptance of the barb. "True. But I'm grateful. That Gabriel showed me some of what you've done for the boys and Sam told me some more. Thank you."

"They're my boys, too," she said.

Dean squeezed her hand briefly and Sam nodded.

"Still," John said, "thank you."

Ellen frowned. "You're not a zombie, are you?"

She was joking but Castiel answered solemnly. "He is a living, breathing human, Ellen."

"How though?" Dean asked. "Happy as I am, this raises a few questions." He turned to Castiel. "Anything on angel radio?"

Castiel shook his head. "Nothing."

"It wasn't angels," John said. "It was Death."

"The horseman?" Dean asked.

"Yes, son,"

"Did he give you any idea why he did it?" Ellen asked,

"Yes," John said. "He said I had to deliver a message to you boys: He is not your enemy. He is your salvation."

"Death is salvation?" Ellen growled.

"Yeah but not the way you're thinking. He said death is their salvation, but not their mortality. And…" He fixed his eyes on Sam. "He said I had to tell you that, when it is time, he will have what you need."

"What does he need?" Dean asked, a note of worry in his voice.

"I don't know," John admitted. "He made it pretty clear he's not the enemy though."

"He's on our side?" Ellen asked doubtfully.

John rubbed a hand across his chin. "I don't know. I got the feeling he was above picking sides. I think he was telling the truth about not being an enemy though. He had these chains round his wrists—looked like a spell. He said he'd been bound, that he's not acting of his own accord, but he has some form of free will."

"He's a horseman though," Dean said. "We've come up against two already and they weren't good."

"I don't think he is at his core," John said. "But he obviously wasn't happy about being bound. I think he'll help us as much as he can to help himself."

"Did he give you a way for me to find him?" Sam asked, "I mean, if he has something I need…"

"But _what_ do you need?" Ellen asked. Anything coming from a horseman couldn't be good.

"A way to kill Lucifer," Sam said. "That's all I can think of. And if anyone has a chance of helping with that, it has to be him, right?"

"I think Sam's right," John said. "Death obviously can't kill Lucifer himself while bound, but he might have a way. We need to find him."

"And how the hell are we going to do that?" Ellen asked.

John looked thoughtful. "I think there might be a way. If we can just find a sign of him to follow… Ash still around?"

"Yeah," Ellen said. "He's passed out in bed though. Had a heavy afternoon."

"Hard luck," Sam said. He got to his feet and walked to the back. Ellen heard the sound of a fist on wood and Sam shouting, "Ash, wake your ass up. I need you."

A moment later, he came back into the room, trailed by Ash.

"What's going on, man?" Ask asked drowsily. "I was doing some important sleeping in there."

"Hello, Ash," John said with an amused smile.

Ash's eyes snapped to him and he blinked and rubbed his eyes. "Man, I am either still drunk or not drunk enough."

"You're fine," Sam said, slapping his back.

"Is he a zombie?"

John laughed. "Not a zombie. Human. And we need your help."

Ash rubbed a hand over his face and said, "Oh, boy, here we go again…"

* * *

 **So… This chapter was written three times. At first Sam ran and didn't come back, then John blamed in a big way, and then I came up with this balance.**

 **Gredelina1 is awesome. Seriously, she's awesome. She has started to record a podfic of Bond of Brotherhood. It's amazing. Really, it is. It's posted on AO3 under Clowns_or_Midgets. Please give it a look and leave us some feedback. She needs a reminder of just how good a job she's done.**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	18. Chapter 18

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy for sharing your awesome beta skills and Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2 for all your help.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Eighteen**_

Dean had forgotten none of the details of his father, so when John stood from the table and looked down at him and Sam where they sat slumped over the table—exhausted after the drive back from Massachusetts and the night of revelation—and commanded they go to bed, he wasn't surprised.

He expected Sam to argue, to say there were more important things for them to do than sleep, but he didn't. He merely raised an eyebrow questioningly, and when John said, "There's nothing coming up on the scanner yet. I'll wake you when there's something to do," he nodded and made for the back.

"You too, Dean," John said.

Dean would have liked to argue. He was a grown man and didn't need bedtime to be instigated by his father, but he needed sleep, and with John back and set on course to hunt down Death, there was no knowing when they'd get to sleep again. He followed Sam into the bedroom and collapsed on his bed. Within minutes, he was asleep.

He felt like he'd barely slept at all when Sam's voice woke him, but a glance at his watch told him it had been hours. He rolled over, knowing what he was going to see from the strain in his brother's voice. Sam was tossing and turning on the bed, sweat beading on his brow and his expression twisted with sadness. Dean didn't know what he was dreaming, but it obviously wasn't peaceful. He knew Sam wouldn't want to alert the rest of The Roadhouse to his nightmare, especially their father, by crying out, so he quickly got out of bed and grabbed Sam's shoulder. His eyes flew open and roved the room wildly.

"It's okay, Sam," Dean said. "Just a nightmare."

Sam blinked up at him. "Is Dad…"

Dean understood. After everything Sam had been through during withdrawal, all the people he'd seen, it made sense that he would doubt something as incredible as John's return. "He's here," he said. "It was real."

Sam blew out a heavy breath and sat up, swinging his legs around to the edge of the bed. He scrubbed a hand over his face and peered at his watch, his brow furrowing when he saw the time. "Why'd he let us sleep so long?"

Dean shrugged. "Maybe nothing's come up yet. Maybe he figured we actually needed sleep."

"I guess." He didn't sound convinced. "Better see which it is." He stood and brushed a hand down his front, smoothing the creases, and then made for the door.

Dean followed him out into the bar. John was sitting at their table, a mug of coffee in front of him along with a sheaf of computer printouts. "Good, you're up," he said. "I think I've got something." He took a sip of coffee and went on. "Okay, I'm working with the theory that Death brought me back in Wyoming, where I was burned. There were some strange weather patterns there at the time, like demon signs. Me and Ash have been tracking similar patterns across the country tonight, and we're seeing them in Michigan. Could be demons, could be Death. Think it's worth the ride."

Sam nodded. "Yeah. Definitely."

Dean wasn't so sanguine. He wanted to stop Lucifer, he did, but whatever it was Sam was supposed to collect from Death had him worried. He didn't think anything coming from a horseman could be good. As he looked from Sam's determination to John's satisfaction, he realized he had no choice in the matter. He could expound on the risks, but it wouldn't be news to them. They knew what they were risking and they were set on doing it anyway, because that was what they did.

* * *

Though Castiel offered his services to get them to Michigan, John refused. He said he preferred to drive, but Sam suspected that his father was more comfortable taking control of the journey himself, just as he was more comfortable behind the wheel rather than letting one of them drive.

They arrived in the small town just outside Lansing in the evening, and drove straight to the place where the signs seemed to be centered. Sam expected to drive into a storm the way they had when he and Dean had gone for Lilith in Montana, but the skies were clear. He knew at once it wasn't going to work out. If Death had been there, he wasn't now.

John came to the same conclusion seemingly at the same time. He punched the steering wheel and cursed. Dean was the only one who didn't seem upset. He glanced over the seat at Sam, and Sam thought he saw a flash of relief in Dean's eyes. He knew that asking Dean about it with their father with them was a bad idea, so he made a mental note to ask Dean about it later and instead suggested they get a motel so they could go over the signs again and see if Ash had anything new.

John agreed, reluctantly Sam could tell, and they headed to the edge of town to the hotel they'd passed on their way in. When John pulled the car to a stop in the parking lot, Sam got out and made for the office to check them in. They had no triple rooms—though they offered to put a cot in one—so Sam took a double and king for John. He went back outside and saw Dean and John standing by the open trunk. He didn't realize what they were looking at straight away, and then John stepped back and he saw the third duffel he'd put in.

There had been no reason to keep John's bag after he'd died, other than the fact he couldn't bear to let it go. It had been kept in the very back of the closet, under a wealth of other stuff. Judging from the look on Dean's face, he hadn't known it was there.

John gave Sam a searching look and then reached for the bag and swung it over his shoulder. "Thank you, son," he said.

Sam handed him the keycard to his room and said, "You're on the corner of the block. Me and Dean are beside you."

He wanted to show his father he hadn't forgotten the smaller rules of their life—ground floor corner room, nearest to the fire escape—even when he'd been gone. It was a small thing, but given the sheer number of other rules he'd forgotten or ignored when doing what he thought was best, this mattered to him.

John nodded and made for his room. Sam grabbed his own bag and followed Dean to theirs. Only when he'd shut the door behind them, did he breathe a sigh of relief. He was about to ask Dean what the relief was about in the car, but Dean spoke first.

"You kept his stuff."

"Yes. Could have needed some of it." That was a lie. The only useful thing John had left was his journal and other books on lore. Sam had taken all of them already.

"Did you?" Dean asked.

"Sometimes," Sam said then changed the subject. "Do you want us to find Death?"

Dean answered a little too quickly for it to be believable "Yes."

Sam frowned. "What's the problem, Dean?"

Dean sighed. "I want to find Death, I do. If he's the way we're going to take down Lucifer, I'm up for it, but I'm scared of what the price will be. He says he has something for you, and the name kinda gives it away that it's something bad."

It wasn't like the same idea hadn't occurred to Sam, but Death had said it wasn't his mortality that mattered. There had to be something else. Besides, not a single person's life was worth the world. He'd made that clear before.

"It'll be okay," he said bracingly.

"You don't know that."

Sam started to answer, "I believe it…" but there was a knock at the door and he trailed off. Dean opened it and their father came in looking grim.

"I've spoken to Ash," he said. "The signs haven't moved, they've just stopped. Wherever Death is, he's not showing himself right now."

"Awesome," Sam said bitterly. An eleven-hour stint in the car and it was for nothing.

"There's something going on though," John said. "Two people have died here this past week. Cops are putting it down to animal attacks, but Ash says there are holes in the story."

"Yeah?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, one of the attacks happened in a locked apartment. And they said it was an animal attack? The guy didn't even have a dog."

"And the other?" Sam asked.

"By the lake. That one could've been an animal, but I'm not convinced. Think it's worth looking around a little while we're here. We've got no leads on Death anyway. We can save some lives maybe."

"Absolutely," Sam said, nodding vigorously. They hadn't taken a regular hunt since Lilith, and the lives he'd saved in Fort Wilcox didn't balance the scales of the ones he'd cost. He found he wanted to be doing this again. Saving lives with his father and brother—together—the way he'd never had a chance to before.

"Okay," John said. "It's too late to do anything tonight, so we should get some sleep. We'll get out early and see what we can do." He smiled slightly. "This'll be good, boys. We need this."

* * *

John woke in the early morning with a name on his lips that wanted to escape as a howl. _"Mary."_ He bit down hard on his tongue, tasting blood, to keep the word within him. The walls weren't thick, and he didn't want Sam and Dean hearing him.

He shouldn't be surprised he'd dreamed of her. He missed her so much already after all.

Heaven for John was memories of his sons, some his alone and some shared with his wife. They would settle a fussy baby Sam to sleep together and then check on a sleeping Dean, safe and young in his bed. From there he would find himself playing catch with Dean in the yard, his small hand drowned in the mitt John had used himself as a child. Mary would sit on the deck watching them, rocking Sammy in her arms. Then he would have his own memories to show Mary. Sam's first steps—toward his brother—his first word, _'Dee'_ , and his first day of school. The memories of him as a child and adult were scarcer, as after was she gone, there wasn't much to remember that was truly happy. They shared what there was though; Mary came to know her sons through John's memories. He wished she was here now to see them, so alive. Their boys.

* * *

Sam was awake first the next morning, and he set himself up at the laptop while Dean showered. He found the local news page, planning to see what else he could garner from the stories of the two deaths. Before he could search though, he saw a banner flash across the screen declaring breaking news. He clicked the link and a page opened with a short summary of a body discovered on the edge town that morning. It had been found by a truck driver passing through on a long distance run. Details were scant, but it said the police weren't treating the death as suspicious, stating that it appeared to be another animal attack. It went on to advise people to be aware of wildlife when out and report any animal sightings.

Knowing his father needed to be told, he went to his room and knocked on the door. John answered at once, looking alert and ready. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"There's been a body found."

Sam made for his room again and John followed. Sam slapped a hand on the bathroom door and shouted for Dean to hurry and then went to stand behind his father at the table. John read the article with a frown. Before he'd finished, Dean came out of the bathroom, bare-chested and hair wet, but tense.

"Another attack," Sam said, giving him a quick rundown of the article.

John sighed as he finished reading and pushed himself away from the table. "What's the moon cycle?" he asked.

It was Dean that answered. "Quarter moon."

"Not a werewolf then." John sighed.

"Could be a skin walker," Dean said. "Vampires disguising their kills with maulings, maybe."

John considered the ideas for a few moments, but then shook his head. Sam wasn't convinced either. He couldn't help but think of Milltown. The demons' kills had been so bad the cops had said some were like animal attacks. That coupled with the signs in the area made him think maybe there were demons having another apocalypse party.

They needed to know more. "We need to see the body," Sam said. "If the heart's gone or the blood drained, we'll know what we're up against."

"Okay," John said. "Sam, you go by the morgue and see if you can get a look at the body. Dean, you come with me to the place the body was found. We might be able to pick something up from there if the cops haven't screwed up too bad."

Sam nodded, falling into the familiar role of following instruction easily. It was a relief in a way, because he was less likely to screw up if he was following orders from the best. And that's what his father was—the best.

* * *

John dropped Sam off at the hospital that housed the morgue before he and Dean went to the scene of the latest death. Sam followed the signs to the basement and when he came to the morgue, he knocked on the office door.

The ME was about what he'd expected—middle aged with graying hair and a somber demeanor. He always wondered at the kind of people who would choose to immerse themselves in the world of death for a living. Didn't they want to save lives with their knowledge?

"Agent Page," he said, holding up his badge to the man.

"Alfred Dunne," the ME replied. "Doctor."

"I'm investigating the recent deaths in town," Sam said. "I need to see the body that was found this morning. I'd also like to ask you a few questions about the other two deaths you've had."

"Of course. Just follow me, Agent," he said. He went to the back wall and took a manila folder from a rack then led Sam out of the office into the vast lab. There were three steel tables in the middle of the room with shower hoses above them and drains below. He went to a bank of fridges at the back, checked the file in his hand and then opened a door. Sam felt the chill as cool air poured out and he shivered.

The doctor pulled the sliding tray with the sheet-covered body on it and hesitated. "Eaten yet?" he asked.

"No," Sam replied.

"Good. This isn't a pretty sight." He eased back the sheet and Sam took in the face of the body. He was probably in his forties, threads of grey just starting to spread and wrinkles forming around the eyes. The sheet lowered to the waist and Sam saw the ruined chest.

He gasped in spite of himself. He had seen this before.

"Like I said, not pretty."

"No," Sam agreed quietly.

Without thought he pulled the tray out fully and eased the sheet all the way down to the man's feet. He'd known what he would see, but that didn't soften the blow—ravaged legs, torn muscle and sinew on show from where the claws had raked over them, stopping the victim from running. Unnecessary as there was no escaping these creatures. The torso was where they attacked next, lungs torn and stomach eviscerated, the killing blow.

"You going to faint?" the doctor asked as if from a long distance away.

Sam took a deep breath and shook his head. "No. I'm good." He cleared his throat and turned away from the ravaged body. "Were the other two victims like this?" he asked.

"Pretty much exactly, yes. The legs and torso have the most damage. It's strange, because most animals we know go for the throat. Yet, these people were unmarred above the neck."

Because the creatures wanted the people to be recognizable—to add to the agony of the surviving family. They were cruel and intelligent.

"Thank you for your time," Sam said vaguely, making for the door.

"You don't want anything else?"

"No," Sam said. "I've seen enough."

He hurried out of the lab and into the hall, only coming to a stop when he was outside. He took deep breaths of the clean air and tried to clear his head of the panic. Just because he'd seenit before, it didn't mean it was going to happen again. That was just his panic.

The hounds weren't coming for his family this time. They were coming for strangers.

* * *

When Dean and John got back to the motel, Sam was already there. Practically the moment they got inside, John started talking. He didn't seem to notice Sam's pale skin and wide, scared eyes.

"There wasn't much to see at the scene," he said. "But it was enough to know what's killing."

"Hellhounds," Sam said quietly.

John's eyes snapped to him. "How'd you know?"

Sam swallowed hard. "I've seen those injuries before."

Of course he had. Twice. When he had wrapped and burned his father and then later, when Dean had died.

"Sammy…" he said sadly.

Sam shook his head and sniffed, effectively cutting him off. "There has to have been a demon working the area ten years ago. I've been looking stuff up on the computer and two of the dead have impressive life stories. One was a renowned pediatrician and the other made a killing on the stock market. I don't know what the deal is with the third, but I'm guessing he made a deal for something, and I…" He broke off and closed his eyes, seeming to be trying to summon calm.

"Okay, Sam," John said firmly. "It's okay."

Sam nodded and looked at him grateful and embarrassed.

Dean wanted to do something to comfort his brother, but he knew it wouldn't be accepted with their father there. Instead, he turned to John and asked, "What are we going to do? There could be more deals." There was no way to fight hellhounds—they knew that from bitter experience.

John considered. "Your deal was held by Lilith, yes?" Dean nodded. "And that's why the demon Sam went after couldn't break it. But the people in this town… maybe they're just in the clutches of the crossroads demon that made the deal. We can try at least."

"We have to," Sam said.

"I know, son. Okay. I figure we get a hold of the demon that made these deals at the crossroads and see what it can do."

Sam looked relieved. "Should we go now?"

"Not yet," John said. "The road isn't exactly busy, but there's enough traffic for people to spot us if we lay a devil's trap in the middle of it. We should wait till midnight at the earliest to work it."

"Okay," Sam said reluctantly. "What do we do now though?"

"We look for another good luck story in town and try to protect the person."

Sam nodded. "I'll get Ash on it, too." He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed.

"Let's go get some food, Dean," John said.

Confused, Dean waved a hand in farewell to Sam and followed his father outside. John stopped just outside the room and leaned against the wall. When Dean had clicked the door closed behind them, he said, "We need to keep Sam out of this."

Dean frowned. "I don't know if you've noticed, Dad, but Sam's not the ditchable sort."

"I mean we keep him away from the hounds," John amended. "If this comes down to failure, if we can't stop the death, I don't want Sam seeing it happen."

"Me either," Dean said, "but how do we stop him?"

"We send him after the demon. He's more than capable of handling himself against one. He's not capable of seeing another hellhound death."

"Agreed." Sam was one of the strongest people Dean knew, but hellhounds... He was already unsteady and that was just the body of a victim. How would he cope with seeing someone else taken down by one? It was better they didn't find out.

* * *

John had intended to summon the demon with his own offering, but he had done no more than pick up the tin before Sam snatched it out of his hand and placed his own FBI badge inside. John gave him a questioning look, but Dean cleared his throat and reminded them of the time, saving Sam the need to explain.

Sam set the tin in the ground and scuffed gravel over it then stepped back out of the trap. John and Dean stood behind him. Dean had the knife in his hand and John a flask of holy water, though they all knew they had no need of either when they had Sam with them.

The demon didn't keep them waiting long, and her look of fear when she saw them standing there was something to savor.

"Winchesters," she said. "Heard Senior was back in the mix, but I didn't believe it."

"Who told you?" Sam asked.

John was wondering the same thing. Ash had a big mouth, always had, but he wouldn't talk to a demon.

"The boss," the demon said.

"Crowley," Sam growled.

John recognized the name of the demon that had set Sam and Dean up with a gun to kill Lucifer that wouldn't work. He wanted to hurt him on principle. Had Ellen not inadvertently shown them that it wouldn't work, they'd have set themselves in Lucifer's path needlessly.

"Yep," the demon said brightly.

Sam took a breath through his nose and exhaled slowly. When he spoke again, his tone was measured and careful. "You've been collecting in this town."

"I have."

"Are there more?"

She smiled "Wouldn't you like to know."

Sam glanced back over his shoulder at John at he nodded. "Go ahead, son."

He knew what was troubling Sam and he wanted to ease his mind. He had spent a long time with Gabriel watching Sam using his powers, long enough that the shock had worn off. If this was what it was going to take to get them the information they needed, it was what had to happen.

Sam nodded to himself and then raised his hand from his side and pointed it at the demon. He curled his fingers in one by one and the demon screamed. Sam held her for a moment and then released her.

"How many more?" he asked.

"Four," she panted. "There's four."

"Ten year contracts?" Dean asked.

She nodded.

"Then why was there one here?"

"He came to bargain again," she said quickly. "He wanted off the hook. He thought I could do it."

"And you can't?" Sam asked, obviously disappointed.

"No, I don't hold the contract."

"Who does?" Dean asked.

"That'd be me." The voice came from behind them. John spun on his heel and saw the demon he'd seen with Gabriel standing there, his hands stuffed in the pocket of his black overcoat and a smug smile on his face. "Nice to see you again, gentlemen."

Sam raised his arm and the demon laughed. "Don't we know how this dance ends, Moose?"

Sam glared at him, his hatred obvious. "What do you want, Crowley?"

"A favor," Crowley said. "Well, is it a favor if it benefits both parties?"

"Like the colt benefited us?" Dean asked. "You sent us off like lambs to the slaughter."

"Well how was I supposed to know it wouldn't work?" Crowley asked. "The gun that kills anything they say; with press like that we'd have been fools not to take the chance."

"Except _you_ didn't take a chance," John said. "You let them do it all."

"Aw, protective dad," Crowley said. "That warms the cockles of my heart, you know." He nodded, satisfied. "Now, I know for a fact you're still without a clue of how to take down Satan, which means I'm still screwed, so how about we have a little chat and discuss our options."

"How do you know we don't have something?" Dean asked.

"Couple reasons," Crowley said. "One, you're here taking care of a crossroads whore instead of actually, you know, _killing Lucifer_. Two, I've got your gas guzzler of a car bugged with a magic coin."

"Bastard," Sam said, starting toward the demon. Dean caught his arm, stopping him.

"Actually, you're not wrong," Crowley said. "But that's beside the point. I'll pull the coin if you agree to stop and listen to me."

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance, obviously distrustful. John wasn't exactly pleased with the idea of trusting a demon, but he thought it might be their best chance. "Call off the deals in this town first," he said "Then we can talk."

Crowley narrowed his eyes. "You know that's against the rules."

"Don't care," John said. "You want us to listen, we need the town safe."

Crowley looked at Sam and Sam nodded.

"Fine," Crowley sighed. "We've got a deal." He snapped his fingers. "Deals are off. Now, let's go somewhere a little less public." He started to walk away but the trapped demon called after him in a querulous voice. "Sir?"

Crowley turned and laughed. "Nearly forgot you, pet. Moose, take care of her, will you?" He stood back and waited expectantly.

Sam eyed him for a moment and then he nodded. He faced the demon, drew a breath and raised his arm once again. A moment later, the smoke was drifting down to the ground.

* * *

Sam was flying high on the success of their meeting with the demon. They'd saved four lives and another from a lifetime as a demon's meat suit. His mood only started to retreat to trepidation when John pulled the car over in front of the address Crowley had given them: a bar on Main Street. They climbed out and John took the lead to go inside.

Sam peered through the crowded space of the room and saw Crowley sitting at a table at the back. He weaved through the people and took a seat opposite the demon. When John and Dean were seated, Crowley leaned forward and said, "Isn't this pleasant? Four heroes getting together to save the world."

"Except you're not a man," John said.

"Semantics."

"And I'm still not convinced you're on our side," John went on.

Crowley affected a look of shock. "That hurts. I'm laying myself on the line here."

"Sure you are," Dean said. "Like you did last time? What are _we_ supposed to do for you this time?"

"Technically, it's not the 'we' I need. It's Boy Wonder there." He pointed to Sam.

"What do you need me for?" Sam asked, even as John and Dean started to protest.

"There's a demon…" Crowley started.

Sam didn't know why he was surprised. Of course it was a demon. What other worth could he have for Crowley?

"You want me to kill it?" Sam asked conversationally, ignoring the sharp look Dean sent him.

"No. Well, yeah, but before you do that I was hoping you'd bust out some of the tricks you pulled on Alastair. See, he's got something we need, and, as talented as I am, you're better when it comes to causing a demon pain."

"What do we need?" Sam asked.

"The whereabouts of Pestilence," Crowley said blithely, looking from one face to the other. "How's about I get us a round in and we talk?"

He slid out of his chair and walked to the bar. As soon as he was gone, John spoke. "I don't trust him."

"You'd be mad to," Sam said. "But he might actually be telling the truth in this."

"Sam's right," Dean said. "And if we can take out Pestilence, that'd be a helluva tick in the to-do column. Whatever Lucifer needs him for can't be good." He looked thoughtful and his eyes drifted to Sam. "Croatoan."

Sam's eyes widened. "Of course."

"The demonic virus you took on in Oregon?" John asked.

Sam nodded. "Not just there. Zachariah—real dick angel—gave Dean a 'future' vision of what could happen if he kept saying no to Michael. Croatoan was everywhere."

"It was the real end of the world, Dad," Dean said. "We figured it was all bull, but maybe not. Maybe there were parts that were true."

"Could be," John said. "That definitely sounds like something Pestilence could be doing."

Crowley sidled back over to their table, a beer and three shots of whiskey on a tray. He gave Dean the beer and slid two of the shots to John and Sam. Sam pushed his own away and looked at Crowley, "What's Pestilence's big plan?"

"No idea," Crowley said. "Something apocalyptic, no doubt."

Sam believed him. "Why do you want him taken out then?"

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Because he's a part of Lucifer's army of destruction. The more power Satan has, the worse trouble I'm in. I quite like the world as it is, and I don't want to see it taken out, and I definitely don't want to see _me_ taken out."

"Okay," Sam said slowly, "where will we find this demon?"

Crowley smiled, satisfied, and said, "You're on board?"

Sam glanced at Dean and his father. Neither of them looked happy, but they didn't say anything, so he knew he had their agreement. "Yes. We're on board."

"Brilliant," Crowley said. "Then let's get to work. He's in Chicago. Incidentally, Sam, Dean, you know him already."

"We do?"

"Yes," Crowley said sounding satisfied. "He's the ultimate demon fix-it man. Name's Ellsworth."

Sam's expression darkened and he brought a hand to the spot on his gut where a scar told the story of a gunshot that almost killed.

"Thought you might like to get reacquainted," Crowley said.

"Yeah," Sam said darkly. "I owe him."

* * *

The drive to Chicago was long enough for John to question them about Ellsworth and why they both looked furious when he was mentioned. Sam told him parts of it—he was a demon they'd gone after in the mission to save Dean and he'd shot Sam—but he didn't tell him the parts about how Dean had beaten him so hard that the meat-suit hadn't had a chance. Dean was grateful, but he felt guilty that John knew all Sam's shame but not all Dean's.

Their conversation turned to how they were going to handle Ellsworth. According to Crowley, he thought himself 'quite the man'. He liked to spend his evenings unwinding in a strip club called the Pink Monkey. His meat suit had been an executive in a pharmaceutical company in the city. That was the persona Ellsworth was taking now, a prime placement for Pestilence's assistant.

They arrived in Chicago around midnight and went straight to the club Ellsworth frequented. Crowley had already scoped the area to check the demon was there. He was. They parked the Impala on the other side of the block so as not to tip the demon off to their presence until it was time.

They laid in wait in a stinking alley in silence, waiting for Crowley to pull off his part of the plan—going into the club and luring Ellsworth out under the pretence of being a dumbass that happened across his place of play.

Dean heard a door open and close and then Crowley's strained voice. "Now, now, Ellsworth, you don't want to do anything rash…"

"I really do," a voice replied. "Let's go somewhere a little more private."

"If that's your thing," Crowley said. "I'd prefer a hotel myself, nice sheets, champagne, hot tub."

Crowley appeared in the mouth of the alley followed by a black-eyed demon Dean guessed was Ellsworth. He wasn't what Dean was expecting. He'd assumed Ellsworth would choose a similar meat suit to his last, but this one was much younger, probably Sam's age, and handsome.

Black eyes widened as he saw Sam, Dean and John waiting in the alley. "Oh, crap…" he groaned.

"Nice to see you again," Sam said, stepping away from John and Dean and fixing his attention on the demon.

The plan was for him to hold the demon while John and Dean got the warded bands around him, but Sam seemed unable to resist the urge to hurt him a little. The demon grunted in pain as Dean and John surged forward and wrapped him in the leather straps Crowley had brought for them. The demon struggled, but it couldn't resist Sam's grip on him. Dean and John stepped back, smiling smugly at the capitulated demon.

"Lovely job," Crowley said. "Now, let's go a somewhere a little more intimate so we can all have a proper chat."

"I'll get the car," Dean said.

Sam nodded, his eyes still fixed on the demon. Dean had a feeling Ellsworth was in for more than his fair share of pain for what he'd done to Sam.

* * *

John watched Sam circle the demon in the chair. There was a devil's trap painted onto the old floorboards of the house Crowley had found for them, but Sam didn't bother to stay outside of it. He didn't seem to care for his safety, though John supposed if there was anyone in that room safe from a demon, it was his youngest son.

Dean stood by the wall, just watching Sam, seemingly familiar with the set-up.

Sam circled the demon one more time and then stepped back and glared down at him. "You shot me," he said darkly.

The demon laughed. "I did. It felt good."

Sam smiled. "I bet it did. I shot your old boss, too. That felt good."

"You think I care about Azazel?" Ellsworth asked. "You're kidding, right? I was glad when you took him out. Opened up a whole new world to me."

"Yeah?" Sam asked. "How did Hell work out for you?"

"It was fine. I wasn't there long enough to enjoy it. Seems the boss wanted my skills."

"I know all about your skills," Sam said. "And I'm sure you've heard of mine." He smiled and tightened his fist at his side. The demon howled in pain.

When Sam released his hold on him, the demon panted. "What do you want?" he asked.

"Right now, I want to hear you scream," Sam said.

John turned away. He'd seen Sam hurt demons before, exorcise them and even kill them when Gabriel had taken him on his little trip through the past, but seeing _this_ , Sam's obvious pleasure at what he was doing. That was his son there doing those things.

Sam turned to him and his expressive eyes were sad. "Maybe wait outside, Dad?"

John hesitated. He didn't want to abandon Sam, but Dean tugged on his arm insistently and John followed him outside the small house to the dilapidated porch. The distance wasn't far enough to block the sounds of the demon's pain.

"Damn," Jon groaned. He hadn't wanted to walk out on Sam, but at the same time he couldn't watch his boy enjoying torturing a demon.

"I know," Dean said, "but remember why he's doing it. It's for the good."

"I've not forgotten. It's just…"

"I get it," Dean said. "I feel the same. But Sam doesn't need you looking at him like that right now." His tone became firm. "Stay out here, okay?"

Dean stared him in the eye, waiting for his nod of acquiescence, then turned and walked back into the house without a word.

After a long time of waiting, listening to the demon's pain and the rumble of Sam's voice, John watched Dean and Sam came out again. Dean was supporting his brother with an arm around his shoulder, and Sam said in an exhausted voice, "I know where to find, Pestilence."

"Well done, Moose," Crowley said, clapping his hands together. "Knew you could do it."

Sam didn't react to the demon's words. His gaze was fixed on his father and he seemed to be on the verge of speech for a long time. "Dad?"

"You did good, Sammy," John said. "You did what we couldn't."

Sam smiled and John saw his relief.

* * *

 **So… Good to see Ellsworth again. I love to link back to the old stories, and Ellsworth seemed the perfect person for Pestilence to pick as an assistant.**

 **Thank you all for the reviews, PMs, alerts and favorites. It means a lot that you're still supporting the story .**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	19. Chapter 19

**Thank you soooo much Jenjoremy for the fabulous beta job, Gredelina1 and SandraEngstom2 for help me get the ideas down and you all for sticking with the story.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Nineteen**_

John felt a flicker of something he was unwilling to call nerves when there was a knock on their motel room door. He knew it wasn't Sam and Dean, as they'd taken a key when they went out to get food, so that left Bobby Singer.

He'd been reluctant for Dean to call his old friend to come in and help them, but he'd accepted that the more hunters that were on the job, the better their chances. Dean had briefed Bobby on his return, which saved someone else accusing him of being a zombie, but he thought maybe Bobby would try to kill him anyway.

There was a second knock, impatient, so he crossed the room to open the door. Bobby's eyes widened when he caught sight of John, despite the foreknowledge, and then he glowered and pushed past him into the room.

"Where are the boys?" he asked. The way he said _boys_ seemed proprietary to John's ears. That was going to get old fast.

"Out getting food."

Bobby nodded and turned away to set down his bags on the first bed. He took a breath and then spun on John with his gun raised and aimed carefully at John's chest.

John felt a moment of panic that quickly dissolved into annoyance. "You won't shoot me, Bobby."

"You think?" he asked. "Seems to me you deserve it."

"You won't hurt my boys like that."

His eyebrows rose. " _Your_ boys? You really think you have the right to call them that now? Sam, I mean maybe, you didn't abandon him, but does he still count as a son or is he a partner now? A weapon, honed and ready for action?"

"You don't know a single thing about me and Sam," John growled.

"No? Maybe not. I know about you and Dean though, because I was the one that found him at that motel a _year_ after you abandoned him, when he was _still_ looking for you. I saw the devastation in the kid, and I had to be the one to tell him to stop looking before it drove him mad. I saw him in the years after, every time I could make the trip to check on him. I saw him become a man without you. So, yeah, I know about Dean."

It wasn't like the words had no effect on John, he felt them all, but he didn't let himself react. He had laid those ghosts to rest with Dean and he wasn't digging it all up again for Bobby Singer. "What happened between me and Dean is family business," he said.

Bobby pulled the trigger on an empty barrel. In that split second, though, John felt fear such as he hadn't since he was standing in a crossroads waiting for the hounds to come for him. He wasn't afraid for himself though; he was thinking of Sam and Dean. How would they cope if he was taken from them like this?

"You bastard," he growled.

Bobby laughed. "You scared, Winchester? Think maybe now you know what Dean felt like when he realized you weren't coming back for him?" He lowered the gun slightly and said, "I should have loaded, made you feel some of the pain Sam felt when he took the shot in that accursed cemetery, thinking it was the only way. Maybe make you see what you did to him with your damn obsession to kill The Demon."

"My son is a hero," John said in a menacing growl.

"Agreed. He's also a mess. You did that to him."

John raised his arms at his side. "Fine, load and shoot. Make my boys feel it all over again. But know they will never—"

At that moment the door clicked open and Dean's laugh could be heard. It cut off quickly as he came into the room and saw took in the scene—John presenting himself as a target and Bobby holding the gun.

"Hey!" he said, his voice higher pitched than usual. "What's going on?"

Sam didn't waste time with words. His son, his weapon, pulled his gun and aimed it at Bobby. John knew for a fact Sam's _was_ loaded. "Put your gun away, Singer," Sam snarled.

Looking almost sad, Bobby lowered his gun and placed it carefully on the bed. Sam waited until he'd stepped away from it before tucking his own in the waistband of his jeans again.

"Okay," Dean said in a tone of forced calm, "what did we miss?"

"Just a chat between a couple old hunting buddies," John said, "Nothing more."

Sam stared him in the eye, seeming to be searching for something, and then he nodded.

Dean came fully into the room and set a grease-spotted paper sack down on the table. "Let's eat."

* * *

Whatever they'd walked in on with Bobby and John had put Sam in a hostile mood. It disappointed Dean because Sam was obviously laying all the blame at Bobby's feet—which wasn't exactly a surprise because he had been the one holding the gun—even though he knew John had the ability to piss anyone off enough to draw on him. And, as Bobby had once told Dean, he'd warned John a long time ago he'd shoot him if they met again. Not that Dean was pleased to have seen his father at gunpoint, but John had reassured them it hadn't been loaded.

They had more important things to worry about though, like Castiel's report. "The building Pestilence is in is crawling with demons."

Their plan had been to go in as suits, to pretend to be there for a meeting and trust in Sam's don't-ask-questions demeanor and John's ability to blag his way in anywhere to get them past security. They would never be able to get past demons covertly though. Sam and Dean were on the Most Wanted list, and John and Bobby were renowned hunters.

"Too many for me to handle?" Sam asked.

Castiel nodded. "More than Fort Wilcox."

And that had rendered Sam so exhausted he hadn't been able to hold himself upright. "Too many," Dean said firmly.

Sam nodded agreement and Dean smiled slightly; he'd expected Sam to argue the issue.

Bobby rubbed a hand through his beard, looking thoughtful. "There's always holy water," he said.

John scoffed. "If there's too many for Sam to handle, there's too many for us to take out with tricks like that."

"We don't take them out," Bobby said in a tone of forced patience. "We douse the sons of bitches with the water we've blessed in the sprinkler system. That should send them running."

"That's actually pretty clever," John admitted.

Dean's mind was pulled irresistibly back through the years to a school in Montana, a child's voice singing, a mocking laugh, desperation, fear, the howls of the hounds.

He must have swayed or paled, as he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked into Sam's eyes and saw the same shadow of horror in him that he was feeling. Sam raised an eyebrow, a question, and Dean nodded. Yeah, he was okay.

Sam turned to Bobby. "That should work. If we can just thin the herd even, I can deal with any stragglers. It's Pestilence we need anyway."

Sam got to his feet and rooted in his duffel, pulling out a clean flannel shirt and jeans. While he unbuttoned his white dress shirt, John and Bobby continued to plan and Dean opened the laptop and examined the building plans Ash had hacked and sent over to them. The main conference rooms were on the fifth floor, and that was where Ellsworth had said the meeting would be held.

"Jesus," John breathed, drawing Dean's attention from the plans.

Dean followed his gaze and saw what he was looking at. Sam's bare chest. He'd seen it since Sam had been held by Lucifer, so it wasn't a shock, but it still made him sick to see the visible evidence of what had happened to him. Sam's skin, already scarred by a life of hunting, was more marred than ever before. There were swirling pattern of red scars that had not yet silvered. They almost looked like art. There was a deep one at the base of Sam's throat, just beneath the one Meg had left him with in Miner's Delight, that made Dean wonder how he'd survived it.

Sam quickly pulled on a flannel shirt and buttoned it, turning his back on them all.

"Sammy," John said sadly.

"Don't want to talk about it," Sam said curtly.

John nodded and cleared his throat, though Dean could still see the horror in his eyes. "Castiel," he said, "Can you get us in the building?"

"Not inside," Castiel said. "I saw angel warding."

"Damn," Sam said. "Okay, we'll work around it."

Dean knew he wanted to get out of there, break the moment and tension of John's reaction. He didn't blame him. It wasn't like Sam needed reminders of what had happened to him. He surely had those nightmares already.

* * *

They arrived under Castiel's impetus on the roof of the office block, which was as close as he could manage to get with the warding. There were no goodbyes or good lucks exchanged between them. John went to work getting through the caged fencing around the water tank while Dean and Sam went through the door that led inside. Castiel stayed on the roof with Bobby and John. That reassured Sam as he thought some of the demons on higher levels might try to escape to the roof to evade the holy water.

The stairs were concrete, and their footsteps echoed against them as they descended. When they came to the floor marked five they stopped. Sam felt his heartbeat in his throat. Though he hadn't mentioned it to the others, the idea that Lucifer might show for this meeting had occurred to him. He didn't know what they could do if they came up against him again. They had to risk it though. Now that they knew, or suspected, what Pestilence's end game was, they had to stop him. Croatoan couldn't be unleashed on the world. If it was, it wouldn't matter who said yes or no, it would all end anyway.

"You ready?" Dean asked.

Sam took a breath, nodded, and reached for the door to the floor at the same moment the holy water started to stream from the sprinklers. For a moment, sense memory overwhelmed him, and he automatically reached for Dean.

"It's okay," Dean said, his voice strained. Sam thought he was feeling the same pull of memory.

The door was yanked out of Sam's hold then, and a demon ran through. She was in the meat suit of a young woman, her blonde hair plastered to her face and her skin sizzling. She didn't even seem to notice Sam and Dean there. She was occupied with getting away from the burning water.

Sam took the lead through the door and into the hall. Other demons were running along it, streaming out of a door at the end of the hall—men and women, old and young, all in professional looking office clothes, and all black eyed and in pain.

Sam and Dean pushed against the flow toward the door at the end of the hall; they were barely halfway there when Sam felt the punch of a memory again. Someone was laughing. It wasn't the childish amusement of Lilith in that poor child's body; it was a man. It still rocked Sam with shock though. Looking pale and scared, Dean took the lead, pulling Sam's arm to guide him. The movement snapped Sam back to himself and he hurried along with him.

Suddenly, Dean stumbled and Sam steadied him with a hand on the shoulder, "You okay?" he asked, surprised to hear his voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat and then a coughing fit overcame him. He lost track of where he was for a moment, as he tried to catch his breath, his lungs burning. He didn't understand. How could be feeling so sick so fast? Then he realized Dean was bent over coughing, too, his chest heaving.

"Pestilence," Sam rasped.

Dean nodded and wheezed, "Come on, we've got to… Before we…"

The sentence went unfinished, but Sam knew what he meant.

He forced one foot in front of the other, staggering along the now empty hall and through the door at the end, where he came face to face with Pestilence.

The horseman was sitting at the head of the table. He looked perfectly ordinary, early fifties maybe, sparse hair and angular jaw. He tapped a ring against the edge of a polished table as he surveyed Sam and Dean.

"Winchesters," he said almost genially.

Beside Sam, Dean's knees buckled and he dropped to the floor. Sam bent to help him up, but he fell forward onto hands and knees and found he couldn't get up again.

"What did you do…?" Dean asked in a moan.

Pestilence smiled and stood, walking slowly towards them. "I've given you a little taste of what I am capable of," he said. "A touch of scarlet fever, a little meningitis, a nice dose of syphilis."

"Bastard," Sam rasped.

"Technically, yes," Pestilence agreed. "I have brothers though." His voice became menacing. "Two of which you have rendered drooling messes."

"Good times."

Dean started to cough again, and Sam was worried that he was going to choke. The sounds made Sam's head pound with pain.

"I'm sure," Pestilence said mildly.

Dean slumped forward, his head tilted to the side and rasping breaths coming from him. Sam placed a hand on his back, wanting to say something to reassure him, but he had no words. He was certain they were both going to die there, and then, angelic protection or not, Lucifer would find them.

Suddenly, someone rushed past him and there was a howl of pain. Something hit Sam on the head and he saw a severed finger fall in front of his face. On the finger was a silver ring with a green stone. At the same moment, Sam realized he didn't feel sick anymore. He got to his feet and held out a hand to help Dean up.

Castiel stood beside the writhing Pestilence, gripping his angel blade in his hand and looking satisfied.

"How?" Dean asked. "The warding?"

Castiel gave a small shrug. "I am apparently not the angel I was once anymore. We should leave. It's not safe here." He eyed the ruined horseman speculatively.

"It's not safe anywhere," Pestilence hissed through his pain. "Soon, so soon, it will be over."

"You mean what you've got brewing in the lab?" Sam asked, relishing the shock in Pestilence's face. "Yeah, we know about that."

"What do you think you can do?" Pestilence asked. "You cannot stop us. We have power."

Sam smiled darkly. "Maybe you do. But we'll see just how much power you have when we've blown your lab sky high."

Sam turned his back on him and followed Castiel and Dean out of the room.

* * *

Once again, the building they had to penetrate was occupied by demons, though fewer than had been in the office. There was no way of blessing the sprinkler water this time, as the building was new enough that the sprinklers were connected to the city's main water supply. They were going to have to go in relying on Sam, the knife and Castiel's blade.

Dean wasn't happy about using Sam like that again, and he knew his father felt the same, but they had no choice but to do it. The lab had to be taken out and they needed to move fast. Castiel took them to the roof of the lab, all loaded with their duffels of explosive.

"Remember," John said, "we want to take the building down to rubble, so keep your positioning even."

"Got it," Dean said while Bobby grumbled assent.

"You ready for this?" John asked, turning to Sam.

Sam drew a deep breath, bracing himself and possibly finding the mindset he'd need to work, and nodded. "Ready, Dad."

John gave him a strained smile and said, "Let's get gone then."

Sam took the lead through the roof access door and down the stairs. As they passed a fire alarm point, Sam pulled it, setting the alarms to blaring. They'd discussed the fact any regular humans would exit the building with an alarm, leaving Sam clear to know who the demons were.

"Fire!" Sam shouted as they threw open a door into a hall with thinly carpeted floors and off-white walls. "Get out of here! Fire!"

People started streaming from the doors that lined the walls, some making for the stairs at a sensible practiced pace, others rushing in their panic. It didn't take long for the fear to spread and for more people to start running. Then the first black-eyed demon appeared and Sam went to work. He raised a fist and quickly dragged the demon from the meat-suit. Several more met the same fate in quick succession. Sam was working fast, too fast Dean thought, straining himself.

"Sam…" he started, trying to find words to make him slow down and take care of himself.

Sam looked away from the human who was just rising from the floor and a look of annoyance passed over his features. "Get on with it then!"

John squeezed Sam's shoulder and then pulled Dean along behind him, making for the end of the building. Casting Sam a reassuring smile, Dean went, pushing aside worry for his brother and concentrating on his job.

They were laying explosives at corners and center points of the floors, their plan to take out the building's supporting frame. He reached the east corner and set to work, taping the C-4 to the wall and attaching the remote detonator to it. He'd never done anything like this before, and his conscience was unsettled. They were getting as many people out as they could, but there were surely going to be some casualties. It was only the fact it was a few or the world that enabled Dean to keep going. He wondered when this had become his life: laying bombs and weighing up the cost of some lives against others. The answer was easy—it happened around the same time the world started to end.

He passed Bobby in the hall after laying his first bomb, but they didn't exchange a look or word. Bobby was tense, focused, and Dean thought he looked a lot like Sam when he was deep in a case. He'd shut down the lesser points of the world and focused on what mattered.

The first two floors were easy enough, but when Dean reached level three, he stopped dead and sucked in a harsh, shocked breath. Sam was lying on the floor, a bloody wound on his temple and his eyes closed.

"Sam!" He ran forward and dropped to his knees beside his brother.

Sam didn't even stir, but Dean's shout drew Bobby. "Dammit," he groaned.

Dean was still trying to rouse Sam. "Come on, Sammy. Open your eyes."

"Castiel," Bobby called.

Castiel appeared beside them and Bobby addressed him. "Get him out of here."

"We shouldn't…" Dean started, about to say that they shouldn't move him, but then reality of the situation caught up with him and he shook his head. They were about to blow the building. They couldn't abandon the mission, and they couldn't leave him.

"Okay," he said. "But be careful with him, Cas. Bobby, go with them." When fully powered, Castiel was a healer, but he wasn't fully powered and Dean knew Bobby had comprehensive medical knowledge. He could take care of Sam.

Bobby looked reluctant, "We've still got two floors to do."

"I'll take care of it."

Bobby nodded and set his duffel down carefully. Castiel reached for Sam, and a moment later, they were gone.

Dean pushed himself to his feet again and drew a breath. As worried as he was, he still had a job to do. He lifted Bobby's duffel and made for the corner room to set the next bomb.

* * *

John worked methodically, carefully setting each explosive to the wall and attaching the detonator. He made sure each action was precise and perfect, though he wanted to get it done and get his boys out of there.

Something was bothering him though. It was going too smoothly. Even with Sam taking out the demons, he thought he'd have met with at least one by now. The halls and rooms were empty though. The fire alarm still blaring explained the lack of humans, but the demons… He didn't understand it.

He had just reached the last room of the second floor when he realized why he hadn't met a demon—they were waiting for him to come to them.

The woman had dark hair that waved down her back and a smug smile. "Winchester," she greeted brightly. "Good to see you, alive and all. Tell me, how did that happen?"

"No idea," John said angrily, cursing the situation.

"I don't believe you."

John shrugged. "You think I care what you believe?"

She grinned. "I think I can make you care just fine."

She appeared in his space and rocked out a fist. It slammed into his cheek, mashing it against his teeth.

"You think that'll make a difference?" John asked, spitting blood. "I've been to Hell."

"Me too," she said brightly. "How did you like it? Quite the experience, right? You should thank me for fixing that up for you."

"You?"

She reached into the inner pocket of her leather jacket and pulled out a short knife. She pressed it against his throat. "Ringing any bells, Johnny?" she asked. "True, last time it was Sammy on the edge of the blade, but I'd think you'd remember."

"You!" John hissed. This was the demon that had almost killed Sam before his eyes. According to Dean, she'd also been the one to possess him, torture Sam and almost suffocate him on other occasions. He owed her.

"Now you're getting it. Yep. Me. Name's Meg."

"Bitch," John growled.

She pressed the tip of the knife into his throat, drawing blood. "That was not polite." She tilted her head to the side. "Oh, here comes a real treat."

John heard the door open behind him and Dean's scared voice. "Dad!"

"It's okay, son," John said.

"Okay?" Meg laughed. "You have no idea just how not-okay this is about to be." Still pressing the tip of the blade to John's throat, she reached into his pocket and pulled out the remote detonator. "Now, this, this is cool," she said.

"Dean! Run!" John shouted.

"No!" Dean gasped.

"He won't," Meg said. "He's not going to leave his daddy all alone. Down in flames, right, Dean? That's what Sammy told you."

"Dad," Dean whispered.

"Run!" John commanded.

Meg grabbed John's wrist and spun him, twisting his arm up behind his back and bringing the knife around to press against his throat. "Feels good, right? Think Sammy was as scared as this when I had him pinned?"

"Run, Dean," John said again, ignoring the demon's words.

Dean did not obey. He appeared in John's peripheral vision, white-faced and scared but determined. From his pocket, he pulled the demon knife and raised it in front of him. "Let him go!" he snarled.

"Sure I will." She shoved him away and John stumbled forward to the window. He turned on his heel, ready to rush the demon, but even as he did he saw her press down on the trigger.

The building shook as the first bomb blew.

* * *

"C'mon, Sam," Bobby urged. "Wake up."

Sam's breaths were steady and his pulse strong, but he'd been out a long time and Bobby was worried. The wound on his temple looked nasty and he was worried about what internal damage might have been done. Afraid, he hadn't asked Castiel if he could sense it.

He pinched the lobe of Sam's ear and then spoke encouragingly as Sam's eyes rolled beneath their lids. "That's right, Sam. Wake up time."

Sam groaned and his eyes opened. "What…" he asked, his slurred voice worrying Bobby further.

"You got knocked out," Bobby said. "Lay still awhile."

Naturally, Sam ignored him. He pushed himself to a sitting position, raising a shaky hand to probe his wound, and grimaced. "Dean and Dad?" he asked.

Bobby shook his head. "Still laying the bombs. They'll be out soon."

Sam's eyes tightened and he looked nervously up at the building. Castiel had set them down at the back, away from the crowd of people that had exited the building with the alarms. Bobby could hear their voices as a rumble. In the far distance he could hear the fire trucks' sirens.

"They will be okay, Sam," Castiel said, his tone soft.

Sam started, as if realizing he was there for the first time. "Know that for a fact do you?" he asked bitterly.

Castiel looked apologetic. Sam didn't cast him a second glance. He fixed his eyes on the building, seeming to be willing his father and brother to come out. Suddenly, he stiffened and said, "Dad!"

Bobby followed his gaze and saw John Winchester in the window on the second floor. His palms were against the glass. He was only there a moment before disappearing from view, but it was long enough for Bobby's heart to contract with fear. Something was wrong.

Sam started to struggle to his feet and Castiel reached out a hand to help him. That was when the bombs started to detonate.

Bobby watched in a kind of trance as windows burst out and the walls seemed to swell. Then the fire started, pouring out of the windows, even as the walls collapsed. A huge cloud of dust and smoke started at the ground and spread upward in a billowing fog. Bobby felt the blast of heat.

"Dean! Dad!" Sam bellowed, getting to his feet and staggering towards the now fire consumed building.

"Stop him, Cas!" Bobby shouted.

Castiel grabbed Sam around the chest and held him back. Sam struggled but he was no match for the angel's strength. Inarticulate shouts and pleas poured from Sam, but Bobby barely heard them. His mind was focused on that building and the people inside. Dean inside. John inside.

"Oh God," he moaned. His own voice seemed muffled.

Sam was screaming now, his hand coming up to yank on his hair. Blood began to flow from the wound on his head again, dripping down his face and wetting his shirt, and his struggles became less powerful.

"Sam," he said gently, his attention slowly coming back to the present.

"No!" Sam howled. Bobby had heard that sound before, the vocal release of more pain than man could stand. He'd heard it in an auditorium in Montana.

"I'm sorry," Castiel was chanting. "I am so, so sorry."

Sam took no comfort from his words. He turned to Bobby and Bobby saw his pupils were blown and his face white. "Help me," he begged.

There was nothing Bobby could do though. The only people who mattered to Sam in that moment had been in that burning building. His father. His brother.

Suddenly, a choking voice called to them through the smoke, and Bobby's heart seemed to stop.

"Sam?"

It was Dean. As Castiel's grip loosened with shock, Sam staggered forward, stumbling and shouting for his brother. Bobby followed him and watched as Sam collided with a frantic Dean. Their arms tangled as they reached for each other, and then they were embracing, each saying the other's name as reassurance.

Then Sam pulled back and looked around. "Dad?" he asked, then his voice rose to a shout. "Dad!"

He was still calling for him as Castiel locked eyes with Dean and shook his head. Dean's face crumpled. He gripped the back of Sam's head and forced him to look into his eyes. "Sammy…" he said. "Dad's…" His voice broke.

"No," Sam howled.

"Yes," Castiel said gently. "I'm sorry, Sam. Your father is gone."

Sam fell forward and Dean caught him as he collapsed.

* * *

John's eyes opened and he looked around. He was in a sumptuously decorated room, the walls decorated with art and a marble topped table in front of him.

"Where am I?" he asked.

Someone cleared his throat and John looked up. There was a portly man with sparse hair standing beside him wearing a black suit and smug smile. "This? This is what we call the green room."

"Who are you? What am I doing here?"

"My name is Zachariah, and you are here, John Winchester, because we have a job for you to do."

* * *

 **So… That happened. I feel I should apologize, so sorry, but you should know by now that I like to make with the twists and angst.**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	20. Chapter 20

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy for the fabulous beta job, and thank Gredelina1 and SandraENgstrom2 for being the best cheerleader team any one ever had.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Twenty**_

Dean was sitting beside Sam's bed alone. Bobby and Castiel were in the hospital somewhere, Bobby had arrived in the Impala not long after Castiel had gotten them there, but they'd agreed that Dean should be left alone with his brother for the time being. He was glad of it. They didn't need an audience.

Sam was unconscious still. He'd not woken when Castiel had bounced them to the hospital or when the nurse had stitched up the cut on his temple. He'd been out when the ER doctor examined him. He'd missed the assertions that he was lucky as there was no fracture.

Lucky, Dean realized, was all relative. If they knew the truth of what Sam and Dean had lost, they wouldn't be throwing around words like lucky.

Dean almost wished he was unconscious, too. That would be better than to feel. The loss of his father felt like a lead weight on his chest. He couldn't breathe properly. It seemed impossible that it had happened. Only hours ago, they'd all been together, working to save the world from Croatoan, now their father was gone. Again.

He swiped away a rogue tear that made it through his control.

He could feel no gratitude for his own survival with what had been lost. He didn't even know for sure how it had happened. The moment the first bomb went, he'd known that was it, he was done for, but then he'd blinked and found himself outside the building with smoke rolling over him, listening to Sam screaming his name. Had he died and that was the place he'd been brought back to or had someone gotten him out? He supposed it didn't really matter. He was alive. John was dead. How was he supposed to live with that?

There was a low groan from the narrow bed and Dean's attention snapped to Sam. He was waking up. His eyes rolled and opened and roved.

"Sammy," Dean said, standing and leaning over the bed slightly.

"Dean?"

"Yeah. I'm here."

Sam blinked up at him and smiled slightly. "Hey." He looked past Dean's shoulder. "Where's Dad?" There was no fear in his face or voice. He sounded like Sam, albeit tired. He didn't remember.

Dean closed his eyes for a moment.

"What's wrong, Dean?" Sam asked, concerned. He eased himself upright and turned slightly to face him.

Dean braced himself and asked, "What's the last thing you remember?"

Sam considered. "We were at the lab. Uh… There were a couple demons I was dealing with when… Meg," he growled. "That bitch Meg was there." He brought a hand up to his temple. "She cracked me."

Dean nodded. That was pretty much what he surmised happened. "What else?"

Sam frowned and considered, then the little color he'd regained since he'd been in the hospital drained from his face. "No. That wasn't real. That was a concussion dream or something." He looked past Dean at the door, as if expecting his father to come though it any moment.

"Not a dream," Dean said quietly. "It happened."

Sam shook his head. "No. It can't have." He sounded angry, as if he didn't understand why Dean was saying these things to him.

"Yes," Dean said relentlessly, knowing Sam needed to hear it laid bare for him to believe. "Meg had the detonator and a knife to Dad's throat. Dad told me to run. I couldn't. I tried to help, pulled the knife, but…" he shook his head, "she set them off."

"How did you get out?" Dean wouldn't have been surprised to hear accusation in Sam's voice, but there was none. His tone was neutral.

"I don't know," Dean admitted. He considered and decided not to mention his theory that he might actually have died. "Just found myself outside. I think maybe the angels…"

"They could have saved Dad, too," Sam said hopefully.

Dean shook his head. "Cas says no. Dad doesn't have the sigils like we do. He could sense him before. After the bombs, he couldn't sense him anymore. He had to have died."

For a moment, the briefest moment, Dean saw Sam's heartbreak in his face. And then it was gone. He wiped away the tears on his face, drew a breath, and the mask appeared, hiding any emotion he was feeling. This was the man Dean had met after long years apart—the man who hid everything from everyone. He had been made that by John's deal. Dean felt sick at the idea that it could happen all over again, that he could lose his brother.

"Okay," Sam said in a dead voice. He ripped the IV out of his hand and tossed it aside then swung his legs around to the side of the bed and stood.

"Sam," Dean said, "you shouldn't…" He trailed off as Sam's expressionless eyes fell on him.

"I'm leaving," Sam said. "You coming?"

It shouldn't have been such a relief to Dean that he asked the question, but it was. He hadn't been sure Sam wouldn't walk out of his life again after what had happened. With the mask in place, it was impossible to tell how much blame Sam would set at Dean's feet for what had happened. It wasn't like there was none to be had. He'd been the one with the knife. He'd been the one who hadn't managed to kill Meg. He hadn't called Castiel to help them. He had his part in his father's death. He was the one who had lived.

"I'm coming," he said.

Sam nodded. "Good."

They passed Bobby and Castiel in the waiting room, and though Bobby rose to meet them, Sam's name on his lips and relief on his face, Sam walked straight past him without a word and out of the hospital door. Dean hesitated for a moment, and then shrugged helplessly at his friends and followed Sam. Bobby could be reassured with a phone call, Castiel a prayer; if Sam got away from Dean this time, he might not come back again.

Sam stood on the passenger side of the Impala, leaning slightly on the door for support. Dean took the keys from his pocket and opened up.

"Home?" he asked when they were both seated.

Sam shook his head. "Anywhere but there. Just get me away from this damned city."

Dean turned the key in the ignition and the engine rumbled. The radio came to life and Sam flicked it off without a word.

They had barely pulled out of the lot before Dean's phone started ringing. He pulled it from his pocket, one hand on the wheel, and checked the caller ID. It was Bobby. Sam snatched it out of his hand and snapped open the back and pulled out the battery. He threw it down onto the seat between them then did the same with his own.

"Sam," Dean said sadly.

Sam didn't even look at him.

* * *

Sam wasn't oblivious. He could see Dean needed to talk, and he wished he could help, but he felt like if he opened his mouth to speak, all that would come out would be a howl. His father was dead and that pain made him feel like he was being burned at the stake.

He had failed.

His job had been to take out the demons, and he'd been knocked out by one. It went back further, too. He'd had Meg in his grip when he'd escaped Lucifer, he could have killed her, but he'd failed, let her go, freeing her to come back and destroy their lives once again. Because of him, his father was dead, again. How many times could he kill the people he loved?

He wished it had been him. He wished _he_ had been the one in that building when it went down. More than that he wished he didn't have the return ticket courtesy of the apocalypse. If he could just die… Back further was Miner's Delight. If he'd died there, all the crap that followed would have been avoided.

But then there was Dean… That was a huge part of his agony—the fact he felt relief tempered with his grief. Sam knew how to live without his father now; he'd managed it for years. He couldn't live without his brother. When'd he tried, he'd become less than human. Even before Ruby had found him again, before the blood, Sam had been a wreck of a man. He needed his brother in a way he'd never needed anyone or anything before. But he couldn't tell Dean that. Even if he knew the words, he couldn't say them. What kind of person did that make him?

Instead of telling his brother how glad he was that he was okay, how much he cared, he said, "Pull over," in a toneless voice as they passed a liquor store.

Dean obeyed and Sam made to open the door.

"Uh, Sam," Dean said.

Sam looked at him. "Yeah?"

"Your shirt."

Sam looked down and saw the shirt he'd woken up in the hospital in was the same shirt he'd been wearing in the lab when he'd been cracked over the head. It was stained with his own blood. He reached into the back and pulled his jacket from the seat. He pulled it on and zipped it closed then made for the store.

It was a small place, specializing more in rare brands than the stuff Ellen stocked, but there was a small stock of Jack Daniels, Crown Royal and Johnny Walker at the back. Sam took two bottles of Jack Daniels to the counter and set them down then waited impatiently while the clerk loaded them into a paper sack and ran his card. When he was done, Sam turned away and left the store, not responding to the clerk's farewell.

Dean eyed the clinking sack when Sam set it down in the footwell but he didn't comment, for which Sam was grateful. He settled in his seat and nodded when Dean asked, "Motel?"

That was what Sam needed. Somewhere quiet they could just be alone to drink their sorrows down. Dean needed that, too, whether he knew it or not. Sam wasn't the only one who had lost his father. They were both suffering.

Dean drove them to a motel just outside the city and checked them in while Sam went to get their duffels. He froze by the open trunk. There were three. His hand drifted to the one in the middle, older than the other two, faded and full. His fingers traced the coarse thread of the bag and he felt a lump form in his throat.

"Dad…"

He swallowed hard and coughed then picked up his and Dean's bags before slamming the trunk closed again. The third duffel would go back in the closet, just in case there was another miracle one day and it was needed.

By the time Dean came out, Sam had pushed down his sadness again and was ready to face his brother.

They let themselves into their room and Sam quickly shrugged off his jacket and bloody shirt. He went into the bathroom and washed the blood from his skin where it had soaked through. When he got back into the bedroom, he picked up a bottle of Jack Daniels and set it on the table.

"You have a head injury, Sam," Dean said.

"I know," Sam said, unscrewing the cap and raising it to his lips. "Have a drink, Dean."

Looking resigned, Dean took a mug from the small kitchenette and held it out to Sam who poured him a generous measure and then tapped the neck of the bottle against Dean's mug. He raised it in front of him, and said, "To Dad."

Dean's eyes were wet as he nodded and said, "Dad," quietly.

* * *

It had been a week, and other than Dean's daily prayers to Castiel to let him know they were okay, no one at The Roadhouse had seen or heard from Sam or Dean.

Ellen wished they were back. She was scared for them. They had just lost their father again, and they needed her. But they weren't there and their phones were switched off and untraceable. If she could just talk to them, to Dean, she knew she would be able to persuade him to tell her where they were. Then she could go there, hold them, love them, make them see it would be okay eventually.

Her worry for them only morphed into something else—panic for the other people she loved—when the sirens started.

The bar hadn't been closed long and she was lying awake in bed thinking of her boys and wishing they were there when the warble ripped through the air. At first, she didn't recognize it for what it was; her immediate thought was of Lucifer. Then reason caught up with her and she threw herself from her bed, shouting for Jo and Ash.

Jo was on her way out of her own room and they met in the hall. "Basement!" Ellen ordered, crossing the hall and throwing open Ash's bedroom door. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, looking bleary eyed and confused—still mostly drunk.

Ellen rushed across the room and yanked him upright, shouting to be heard above the sirens. "Tornado!"

Ash blanched. Ellen dragged him out of the room and through the door that led to their basement. When she felt him get his feet under him, she released him and hurried down the stairs, her hand gripping the rail.

Jo had the flashlight in her hand, lighting the floor for Ellen and Ash to get over to her. Ellen sat beside her and pulled Ash down on her other side. In the dim light, Ellen could see they were both wide-eyed and scared. She didn't feel that brave herself.

The sirens seemed muffled belowground, but when the winds started they heard them as if they were standing in the open air. Ellen's ears popped as the pressure changed and she felt Jo stiffen beside her. She wrapped an arm around her shoulders and wound her other around Ash. She felt them shaking against her, and she realized she was shaking, too.

This was hardly their first tornado, but she didn't think there had ever been one so close before. It was like a freight train was passing overhead. Her heart clenched as she realized the sound was probably the end of The Roadhouse. The loss of the bar itself didn't worry her as much as the ruin of the building. They were insured, but the memories of the place couldn't be replaced. This was where she and Bill had set up their business. This was where Jo had been brought home the day after she was born, where she and Sam had played as children. This was the place they all came back to at the end of the hunts. This was home.

The sound grew impossibly louder and Ellen cringed into the wall, scared for her life. Then, as abruptly as it had started, it stopped. The roar died away and the feeling that the air was forcing its way into Ellen's head disappeared. She lifted her head slowly and looked from Jo to Ash.

"You okay?" Her voice sounded loud in the sudden quiet.

"Yeah," Jo said, peering up at her. "Ash?"

Ash was rubbing at his ears frantically, but he looked up and nodded at Jo's question.

Ellen removed her arms from their shoulders and pushed herself to her feet slowly, feeling a little shaky still. She walked to the stairs and hesitated as she looked up. The door was intact, but that didn't guarantee the rest of the building was.

"Okay," she said bracingly. "Let's go see the damage."

* * *

Dean slapped Sam awake in the morning. It was early, and the sky was just lightening beyond the windows. Sam was surprised Dean was disturbing him, as he'd been leaving him to sleep pretty much continuously when he wasn't drinking.

He rolled over and looked up blearily. "What?"

In answer, Dean turned back to the TV and raised the volume. The smooth voice of a news anchor was speaking. _"Though no official figures have been released for casualties, the hospitals in the area have called in all off-shift staff to deal with the injured. Damage to property is vast and many people have found themselves homeless this morning. A fund has been set up by the AmeriCares foundation. If you're able to donate, the details are on screen. If you're just joining us, this is the story of the devastating tornado that hit Southeast Nebraska in the early hours…"_

"Lincoln?" Sam breathed.

Dean nodded, his eyes haunted. "I tried calling, but…"

Sam was out of bed and shoving his feet into his boots before Dean finished speaking. Even as he made for the door, he was shoving the battery back into his phone and dialing Ellen's number. A recorded message informed him the number was unavailable. He got to the car and threw himself in behind the wheel, pressing down on the horn to hurry Dean as he came out of the room, their duffels over his shoulder. He threw them into the back seat and then climbed in beside Sam. Sam gunned the engine and drove out of the lot and onto the road.

"Keep calling," he instructed Dean. "Don't stop till they answer."

"On it," Dean said tersely.

When they reached the interstate, Sam slammed his foot down on the accelerator and weaved in and out of the traffic. His heart was pounding hard in his chest. Not Ellen. Not Jo. He couldn't lose them, too.

Suddenly, Dean sat forward in his seat and slapped the dashboard. "Ash? Thank God, man. Are you okay?"

Sam swerved slightly as he snatched the phone from Dean and brought it to his ear. "Ash? Talk!"

It was like listening to a badly tuned radio. "Ellen and Jo… Bar… damage… help… all of them…"

"Dammit," Sam cursed. "I can't hear you, Ash. Are Ellen and Jo okay?"

The only response was the beep of a disconnected call. Sam threw the phone back to Dean and slapped his hand against the steering wheel. Ash was alive, that was great, a relief, but there was no news of Ellen and Jo. Sam was terrified. He thought he would do anything, give just about anything to make sure they were okay.

They had to be okay.

* * *

They closer they got to The Roadhouse, the worst the damage was. Dean had seen tornado damage before, the foundations that were all that was left of what had been sprawling houses; the ruined crops and barns, ruined livelihoods; the wrecked cars on the roads where they had been dropped by the tornado after being ripped into the air; the debris covering the ground that had once been roofs and walls; shell-shocked people, kids, standing in the streets. It was all there and more. It was devastating.

Sam didn't seem to notice any of this. His eyes were on the road, weaving through the barriers and debris nature had left to slow their journey, his hands white-knuckled on the wheel. They'd continued calling Ash, Ellen, and Jo's numbers, but there was no answer, and when they got closer to Lincoln, their signal died, too. Dean was scared for his family.

The Roadhouse was set in farmland a few miles out of the city lines, and as they drew closer, Dean's eyes roved the landscape for a sign of the building, though it was usually blocked from view until you were close.

They were within half a mile when Sam suddenly reached out a shaky hand and touched Dean's arm. "Do you see?" he asked in a quavering voice.

"I see," Dean said, his heart beating wildly.

The Roadhouse was there. It was impossible to tell the damage from this distance, but the main structure of the building was intact. It gave him hope that the people who occupied it were there, too. If the tornado had come at night, they'd have all been home.

Sam increased their speed, moving recklessly around barriers and screeching to a halt a hundred yards from the building. He threw open his door and ran at The Roadhouse, Dean on his heels a moment later. He'd seen it, too. Three figures standing by the door.

Sam didn't even slow as he reached Ellen. He yanked her into his arms and lifted her bodily into the air. When Dean reached them, Jo threw herself at him and he caught her, feeling her comforting weight in his arms.

"You're okay," Sam was saying. "You're okay."

"We're all okay," Ellen said tearfully. "We're fine, honey."

Dean stepped back as Sam finally released Ellen and grabbed Jo into his arms instead. His hand smoothed her hair and she buried her face against his chest.

"Hey, man," Ash said, sounding weary.

Dean clapped him gently on the back. "Good to see you, Ash."

Sam and Jo parted and Dean turned to Ellen. "Anyone hurt?"

She shook her head. "Not a scratch."

"And the bar?" He eyed the building speculatively.

"Come and see."

They followed Ellen into the bar, and Dean stopped dead, making Ash walk into him. It was perfect. Untouched. The bottles behind the bar were in neat rows. The glasses sat polished on their shelves. The stools, tables and chairs looked untouched. There wasn't a thing out of place.

"You cleaned up, right?" Dean said.

Ellen shook her head. "Not a glass broken."

"How?" he asked.

Ellen shrugged. "I have no idea."

Someone cleared his throat by the door to the back. Dean looked and saw Gabriel standing there, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes amused. "Feeling a little lost there, boys? Let me explain…"

* * *

 **So… The apocalypse just got apocalyptic. Being UK born and bred, the closest I've come to a tornado is a bunch of leaves swirling in a cool funnel one time. I watched YouTube videos though and read accounts, so I'm hoping I did a halfway decent job of writing that scene. Let me know.**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	21. Chapter 21

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy for all your hard work, and thank you Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2 for all your help.  
**

 **Here we go, the penultimate full chapter. I hope you enjoy.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Twenty-One**_

 _Someone cleared his throat by the door to the back. Dean looked and saw Gabriel standing there, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes amused. "Feeling a little lost there, boys? Let me explain…"_

" _You_ saved them?" Sam asked, his tone doubtful.

"No, they were a side effect of me saving this fine example of American craftsmanship," Gabriel said, patting the wall. He rolled his eyes. "Of course I saved them. Though, I admit, I do have fond memories of this place, too. That right there was where Momma Bear stood when she shot me, and that stool is where I would sit when I was pretending to be a tourist while you were trapped in Deanless world, Sam. Good times…"

"Why would you save us?" Ellen asked. Dean was wondering the same thing. Like Gabriel said, Ellen had once shot him.

"Because I figured you'd lost enough for one week," he said, answering Ellen's question but keeping his eyes on Sam and Dean, and Dean didn't detect a lie. "I'm sorry about your father."

Dean swallowed hard at the mention of their loss. "Thank you."

Gabriel nodded then smiled slightly. "And here comes the cutest angel in the garrison."

Castiel appeared in front of them. His blade dropped into his hand and his stance stiffened. "Gabriel. What have you done?"

"Me? Only saved the lives of three of the little humans you're so fond of." He looked amused. "Put the pig sticker away, Castiel. You know it won't hurt me anyway."

Sam leaned forward and slowly pushed Castiel's arm down, lowering his blade. Castiel turned, confused, and Sam said, "It's okay, Cas. I think he's on the level."

Castiel eyed him for a moment and nodded. "You are not the cause of the destruction then?"

"Nope. That was all on Lucifer. Or I suppose technically it was Death, but we all know whose orders he's following, don't we? See, when you clever little capuchins took out Pestilence, blasting his Croatoan hopes to kingdom come at the same time, you annoyed Lucifer a little. He had such grand plans for ending humanity, and they literally went up in smoke. He's apparently decided to do it old school. Not sure he's planning on a flood like Daddy, but he's taking out your race one way or another."

"And you're going to help us?" Castiel asked.

Gabriel shook his head. "Not so much. I've done my bit. I just came to deliver a warning and little piece of apocalypse trivia. Shall we sit?" He snapped his fingers and a bottle of whiskey and five glasses appeared on their usual table. He snapped his fingers again and Dean found himself sitting between Sam and Ash at the table, one of the empty glasses now holding a generous measure of whiskey in his hand.

"What the…?" Sam started.

"Here's the thing," Gabriel said as if there had been no interruption. "Michael has taken a vessel. Not his destined one, obviously"—he nodded to Dean—"but he found someone who'll work out."

"That's what I've heard, too," Castiel said. "I have not been able to discover who it is."

Gabriel shrugged. "Does it really matter anyway? Point is, Michael is going to be coming for Lucifer. Obviously he'd prefer it if he was riding you at the time, Sam, but I wouldn't put it past him to go ahead with things as they are. In short, you're out of time."

Dean took a swig of his whiskey and gasped as it burned his throat.

"Is there nothing we can do?" Ellen asked, tears in her voice.

"Of course there's something," Gabriel said. "I wouldn't be here otherwise. I'd be sunning myself in Fiji and enjoying the world while I can." He drew a breath. "Rings. The horsemen's rings you've been collecting, they're not just accessories. They're keys—keys to the cage. It's still down there. Get the rings, say the magic words, and you've got yourself a direct highway to the cage."

Sam breathed out heavily and his eyes fixed on Dean.

"We're still a ring down though," Dean said. "We don't have Death's."

"I'm aware," Gabriel said, nodding. "But he shouldn't be hard to track down given the path of destruction he is currently cleaving through the country." He pointed at the TV mounted on the wall and it came to life. A video was playing, showing what looked like a town being decimated by a storm. Trees were bent almost double or else being ripped from the ground and grey clouds rolled overhead. "Hurricane Julian," Gabriel said. "Currently working its north through Pennsylvania, heading to…"

"Sonny!" Dean gasped.

Sam turned to look at him and his eyes were wide. "Dean…"

"We have to go!" Dean lurched to his feet, his knees catching the edge of the table and rattling the glasses.

"Cas," Sam said, his voice commanding. "Sonny's. Now."

"But…" Ellen started, but whatever she was going to say was lost as Castiel swept them away.

* * *

Sam was expecting to arrive into a storm, but the air was deceptively calm over Hurleyville. There was a gentle breeze, the sky was blue, birds sang, and in the distance there was the drone of a small airplane. There were a couple kids playing catch on the grass in front of the farmhouse and on the steps sat Sonny and Mitch, each with a can of soda in his hand and a glossy looking brochure on Mitch's lap.

"Sonny!" Dean shouted.

Sonny looked up, a smile on his lips that turned down when he saw Dean's panicked face. "What's wrong?" he asked, hurrying towards them.

"Storm coming," Dean said breathlessly. "You've got to get everyone underground."

Sonny's eyes scanned the horizon. "I don't think so, Dean."

"Trust us," Sam said forcefully. "It's coming."

Sonny looked worried for the first time. "Is this your kind of storm?"

Mitch sidled up to them. He scowled at Dean and addressed Sam. "What's going on?"

"Big storm," Sam said. "You guys have a basement?" A place this big had to have one. He hoped.

"Yeah," Sonny said. "It's through the kitchen."

Sam cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "Playtime's over, kids! Get inside now!"

The two boys who had been playing catch came running over. "Sonny?" one asked. "What's going on?"

"Storm coming," Sonny said. "You boys get inside and downstairs."

They boys ran off, their small shoulders tensed and heads ducked down.

Dean looked around. "Where's everyone else?"

Sonny looked stricken. "They're out in the north field, playing."

"We'll get them," Sam said. "You got a whistle or something?"

"Kitchen drawer by the sink."

Sam ran to the house, almost crashing into Sonny's woman of work, Ruth. She barely seemed to see him. She ran outside to Sonny. Sam went into the kitchen and rooted through the drawer for the whistle. He found it and spun to head back outside when the voice on the radio penetrated his mind. A somber and professional voice was saying, _"This is not a test. The hurricane currently sweeping through Pennsylvania is on a course north. It is expected to reach outlying cities in the next ten minutes. That is Poughkeepsie, Monticello, Ellenville and Hurleyville. If you are in these areas, take shelter. This storm joins the ones currently affecting The Dakotas, Wyoming and Montana."_

Sam fled the room, running toward Castiel and shouting his name. Ruth was babbling to Sonny about the coming storm but Sam spoke over her. "Cas, go get Bobby! Now!"

"What's wrong?" Dean asked.

"There a storm hammering South Dakota, too. He's going for the people we care about, Dean. First Ellen, now here, and Bobby's next. We have to get him out of there." Seeing Castiel still standing there, looking confused, he raised his voice. "Get him out of there, Cas! Get him to The Roadhouse and protect them all. If the storm follows, haul their asses out. Take them to Alaska if that's what it takes; just keep them safe!"

Castiel nodded and disappeared. Sam turned his attention to Dean who looked stricken. He squeezed his shoulder and said. "North fields?"

Dean pointed.

"How many kids?"

"Twelve," Sonny said.

Sam and Dean set off running and Dean called back over his shoulder, "Get them inside, Sonny!"

They raced around the barn and out into the fields. Sam put the whistle in his mouth and blew unsteady blasts on it as he ran. Dean was shouting. "Time, kids! Come on now!"

Sam wondered for a moment why he didn't use something a little more likely to motivate them to moves their asses, but he realized that if they were to start shouting about a hurricane, the kids would panic. Dean was using commands they were familiar with—and hopefully obedient to.

Sam saw the kids coming toward them at slow jogs; as they got closer he saw their disappointed faces at their playtime being interrupted. He did a quick headcount and saw there were twelve just as Sonny had said.

"Dean?" a boy at the front of the group said. "What's going on?" He sounded wary.

"Nothing, Russ," Dean said easily, his tense expression smoothing. "Ruth's decided on early lunch and she's in a bear of a mood. Tell you what, let's race back!"

The kids laughed and whooped and set off running full pelt. There was one who lagged though—a kid who looked to be no older than six. Sam wondered what kind of family would leave a kid that young to a place like this.

"Hey, kid," he said. "You wanna win?"

The kid nodded, looking forlornly after his fellows as they raced away from him.

"Come here," Sam swept him into his arms and holding him against his chest, he started running after the boys and Dean.

He felt the child laughing against his chest, even though he made sure to keep their pace just a little behind the others. He didn't want to lose any of them.

"Faster!" the child chanted. "Faster! Faster!"

When they were almost at the house, Sam surged ahead, and the child crowed jubilantly.

Sonny was standing on the porch, his hands running nervously through his hair. When Sam reached them, he set the kid down in front of him and turned to watch Dean and the others come to a panting stop.

"Inside now," Sonny said, "straight down to the basement."

"What?" Russ said, looking back at Dean. "You said…"

At that moment the breeze died and an eerie feeling of doom settled over the group. Sam had been through enough storms to know what was coming. He looked up at the sky and saw the rolling grey clouds obliterating the blue.

"Inside!" he snapped and was thankfully obeyed. Sonny shepherded the kids through the kitchen and down the stairs to the basement, Sam and Dean following.

The room was vast, the full size of the farmhouse, and thankfully set up for emergencies. There was a stack of blankets and pillows, a CB radio and a pallet of bottled water.

"After you boys set up the house for… you know," Sonny said, "I figured we should be ready to bunker down."

"'You know'?" Mitch asked from his place between two of the younger looking children.

"Energy," Sam said, winking at him.

He looked worried still, but when Sam looked pointedly at the kids on either side of him he nodded and turned his attention back to them. He would be expecting an explanation later, Sam knew, but he would come up with something other than the truth to tell him. The kid didn't need the nightmares.

Dean tugged on Sam's arm and led him over to the stairs. "Bobby," he said meaningfully.

"I know," Sam said. "But we can't do anything that we haven't already done. Even without Cas getting him away, he's got the panic room. Nothing's going to reach him in there. He might lose the house, but there are worse things."

Dean nodded, though he still looked tense. "There are so many others though."

"We can't protect the world, Dean," Sam reminded him. "Not from something like this. All we can do is take care of the ones that we can and hope for the best for the others."

"Doesn't make it any easier though, does it?"

Sam shook his head. No. It definitely didn't make it easy.

He sat down on the bottom step and put his head in his hands. His mind was presenting him with faces of people he knew: Rufus, Missouri, Mackey, Isaac and Tamara, any one of hundreds of other people Sam had saved over the years. They were all out there, maybe facing the same type of storms. Would they make it through? What was going to become of the world?

When the storm hit, it was like a jet taking off beside them. Ruth screamed and some of the kids burst into tears. Sam watched Sonny, Mitch and Dean moving among them, wrapping blankets around small shoulders and handing out water to serve as a distraction.

They seemed to have things under control, so Sam stayed seated and just listened to the wind moaning and howling above them.

He didn't know how long had passed, it felt like forever, before he heard a sound separate to the howl of the wind. Footsteps and a tap as if of metal against wood.

He glanced around to see if anyone else could hear it, but no one looked anything other than scared. Even Sonny and Dean, trying to reassure the kids, couldn't hide the fear in their eyes.

"Dean," he called.

Dean turned from the kid he was talking to and then came over to Sam. The sound of the wind was loud, but Sam didn't want to risk being overheard, so he leaned close to Dean and spoke in his ear. "He is here."

"Lucifer?" Dean asked.

Sam shook his head. "I don't think so. Death."

"How do you know?"

"I can hear him. Can't you?"

Dean concentrated for a moment and then shook his head. "What do we do?"

"Talk to him," Sam said simply. "I'm going up."

Dean's eyes widened. "You're kidding, right? Sam, there's a hurricane raging up there."

"He won't let it kill me," Sam said. "He wants to help us. He has what we need. Death is our salvation, remember? He's going to give me his ring."

Dean looked doubtful. "We don't know that."

Sam closed his eyes for a moment and focused, the footsteps were still there, though they seemed to be drawing away.

"I don't have time to argue," he said. "I am _sure_ I am right. I'm going up, Dean." He turned away and took one step up before Dean grabbed his arm and pulled him back. "I'm going with you."

Sam shook his head violently. "You need to stay here with the kids. They're freaked out already. Imagine what it's going to be like when they see me walking into a hurricane?"

It wasn't the most moral thing Sam had ever done, using Dean's need to take care of the kids in his favor, but it worked. Dean looked between Sam and the kids grouped against the wall and nodded.

"You be damn careful," he ordered.

"I will," Sam said. "Don't worry."

He patted Dean's shoulder and carried on up the stairs. With one hand on the door handle he looked over his shoulder and shouted, "Cover your eyes," They all obeyed but Dean. He stared at Sam as he opened the door and stepped through.

The floorboards beneath his feet vibrated and the walls shook. They were still standing though, and Sam was thankful. Sonny and the kids didn't need to lose their home.

He listened hard for the footsteps again and heard them on the plank boards of the porch. He hurried out of the kitchen through the back door. It was a nightmare. The rain pelted the ground and the wind ripped through the air. Debris rushed past Sam's eyes so fast he couldn't make out what it had been before the storm. He looked around, searching for a glimpse of Death, and saw the red barn that had stood proud the other side of the yard was losing the boards that made its walls one by one. Sam felt none of it though. The wind that he could see raging came to him as a breeze that ruffled his hair. The debris that whipped around him didn't make contact. It was as if he was in a bubble of protection.

"Hello, Sam."

Sam spun to the side and saw a man standing beside him. He had dark hair combed back from his skeletal face, and he wore a black suit and overcoat. In his hand was a silver tipped cane.

"Death?"

The man nodded slightly. "Let's walk."

He walked down the steps and crossed the yard. Sam followed without hesitation. The wild storm continued around them but Sam and Death were almost completely unaffected. When Death spoke, Sam found he could hear him clearly.

"I am glad you found the courage to come out. I would not have been happy if I'd been forced to come to you. It would have scared the children."

"You care about scaring children?" Sam asked.

"Not particularly. But it would have put your brother on the defensive and this conversation would have been hindered by him. You know why I am here, don't you, Sam."

"You're going to give me your ring," Sam said confidently.

"Am I?" Death asked, raising an eyebrow. "Shall I give you my coat and cane, too?"

Sam frowned. "You told my dad…"

"That I would help you, yes, but I will not just _give_ you my ring. It's not a corsage or piece of costume jewelry to be given to a prom date. It is a thing more powerful than your human mind can comprehend. I will only give it to you when I am confident you can handle it."

"Okay," Sam said slowly. "How am I supposed to prove to you I can handle it?"

"In part, you already have. By walking into a storm to seek me, you have proven you have the chutzpah to do what must be done. Do you have the will though?"

"I have more than will," Sam said. "I am prepared to do anything for this."

"But will you _give_ anything?" Death asked.

Sam's heart clenched and he glanced back at the house. No. He would not give _anything._

Death looked amused. "No, not Dean."

Sam exhaled with relief.

"So much strength," Death said in a musing tone, "but such a powerful weakness. If Lucifer wasn't preoccupied with his temper tantrum, if he put the slightest thought into you, he would know how to break you easily. It is not your own suffering that scares you, is it? It is Dean's. You can take anything but that."

"He's suffered enough," Sam said.

"You love him very much."

Sam nodded stiffly.

"Good. That love will strengthen you," Death said. "It should make it possible for you to follow through."

"I will have no problem following through on this," Sam said confidently. "Lucifer has to be stopped."

"He does," Death agreed. He looked into Sam's eyes. "You know, I thought it would be a little more complicated, but I can see in your eyes you have already made up your mind. You are a strange human, Sam Winchester. Most seek to avoid pain. You're going to dive right into it, aren't you?"

"I am," Sam said.

Death gave him an appraising look. "Strange," he muttered, and then he tucked his cane under his arm and slid his ring from his finger. He weighed it in his hand for a moment. "You won't give your brother up for this fight."

"No," Sam said firmly.

"And yet to expect him to give you up." It was not a question.

"No one man's life is worth more than the world," Sam said.

"No one man but Dean's, you mean?"

"Yes. That's what I mean." Sam said firmly.

"Tell me, Sam, how do you think you will persuade Dean to let you go?"

Sam closed his eyes for a moment and said, "Dean has always given me what I needed. And now I need this to be over."

Death nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, that may work." He drew a breath. "Very well. You can have it."

He tipped his hand and dropped the ring into Sam's waiting palm. It was heavier than it looked, as if the power it held weighed it down. Sam curled his fingers around it, feeling the cool metal against his heated skin.

"Thank you," Sam said.

Death reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a small envelope. He held it out to Sam who took it, feeling the parchment-like paper. "Your instructions," Death said somberly. "Do not fail, Sam Winchester. This storm will seem like a raincloud in comparison to what Lucifer has planned for me to do."

"About that," Sam said. "Is there nothing you can do to stop it?"

"Lucifer has me bound," Death said.

"I know. I just figured, since you're Death and all, that you might have a trick or two up your sleeve."

"You might be right," Death said thoughtfully. "Work fast, Sam Winchester. I cannot evade Lucifer's instruction forever."

"I will," Sam vowed to the empty air.

Death was gone, as was the storm. The debris that had been flying settled on the ground and the clouds overheard cleared to blue sky again. He looked back at the house and saw that, despite a few broken windows and missing roof tiles, it was intact. Dean would be pleased, and it seemed right to Sam that Dean have a little happiness before Sam made him face what had to happen next.

Before they had to say goodbye.

* * *

 **So… That happened. I will be hiding in my pillow fort until I post the next chapter.**

 **Actually, before I go, there's something I need to say. There is one chapter left and an epilogue now, but there will be another story. I am currently working on the 5th and final story in the Brotherhood series. It is called Back in the Saddle, and I am hoping to start posting as soon as Brother's Keeper is finished.**

 **NOW I am going to the pillow fort.**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	22. Chapter 22

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy for being the world's best beta. You're do more than just fix my booboos, you make the story so much more with your little additions. Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2, you ladies make it possible for me to write. Thank you so much x**

 **I'm posting early this week as I just this afternoon finished writing the epilogue for the fifth and final story of the series. Suffice to say, I am a bit of an emotional mess right now. I thought I'd share the feeling with this chapter. Yes, I am that cruel.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Twenty-Two**_

"Seriously, Dean, we might not have all made it back in time if you and Sam hadn't come," Sonny said. "Thank you so much."

"Anytime," Dean said with a smile.

"I mean it. You saved lives." Sonny shook his head. "Though I suppose that's nothing new to you and Sam, is it?"

"Some days it feels like it is. Not for long though." Not now that they had the rings.

Sonny looked over the yard at the kids where they were wandering around, kicking at the wreckage left by the storm. They all looked shell-shocked still, and Dean guessed there were a few sleepless nights in store for them in the future.

The youngest kid, Finn, only six years old was standing by the porch, his eyes fixed on Sam where he and Mitch walked out by the ruined barn. Dean wasn't sure if it was because Sam had carried him to safety or if it was because he'd seen Sam walk into a hurricane and survive, but the kid was transfixed.

When Sam had walked out of the basement the kids had panicked, convinced Sam was walking out to his death. Dean, Sonny and Mitch had tried to reassure them, but calm didn't come until the storm ended and Sam walked back inside, looking windswept but unharmed. Dean thought the story of the hurricane and the man who stopped it was going to become part of the legends shared by the kids who stayed at Sonny's. Mitch especially seemed awestruck by Sam, though his tone had been firm and demanding when he'd approached Sam after they'd all made it outside and commanded, "Talk!"

Against what Dean expected, Sam had nodded and led him away. Though he knew that Sam wouldn't tell Mitch the truth of what had happened, he hoped whatever story he did come up with was good, as Mitch was a smart kid and wouldn't take an obvious lie well.

"He sure has changed," Sonny said, his gaze on Sam.

Dean nodded and then breathed a sigh of relief as Castiel stepped out from around the house. Sam looked up at the same time. He clapped Mitch on the shoulder, said something that made Mitch nod, and then came across the yard to them.

"Is everyone okay?" Sam asked Castiel urgently.

"They are all safe," Castiel replied. "I was able to retrieve Bobby from his panic room and we all sheltered in The Roadhouse." He fixed his eyes on Sam. "How were things for you?"

Sam pulled the ring from his pocket. "Not bad."

"Good," Castiel said with an understated nod, though his eyes were bright.

"We should get out of here," Sam said.

Dean nodded and he and Sonny shared a quick embrace before he stepped back. Sonny held out a hand to Sam and they shook. "Thank you so much, Sam," he said. "Really."

"Glad you're all okay," Sam said. He turned to Castiel. "Ready?"

In response there was the familiar feeling of being displaced in movement and then they were standing in the bar of The Roadhouse. Ash was sitting at the bar, a bottle of PBR in his hand and his expression grim.

"Where's everyone else?" Sam asked, his voice concerned.

"In the kitchen. They're cooking up some food to take into the city for people."

"They'll have to hold off on that," Sam said. "Come on, Ash. We need to talk."

Ash slid from his stool and followed Sam and Dean through to the back.

The smells of chili and macaroni cheese filled the room. Ellen was at the stove, stirring a huge pot and Jo was grating a block of cheese while Bobby chopped peppers.

Ellen turned as they came in and her face lit with relief. Sam spared her a small smile and then said, "We need to talk."

* * *

Castiel stood by the counter, and the rest of them were seated around the table. They each had a drink in front of them, beer, whiskey, and in Sam's case, coffee. That was Dean's first clue something was really wrong, something more than the emergency they were already dealing with. It was like he wanted to keep a clear head.

All eyes were fixed on Sam as he set down a cigar box on the table and opened it. The rings they'd taken from War, Famine and Pestilence were there. Sam tipped them out and then pulled a fourth from his pocket. As he set it down on the table, the rings snapped together as if pulled by magnets, Death's at the center and the others attached to the sides. Sam pulled them apart with effort and held up Death's.

"He handed it over," he said. "We've got everything we need to do this."

Ellen breathed a shaky breath. "Finally."

"One problem," Bobby said. "From what Ellen told me about Gabriel's appearance, these rings form a 'highway' to the cage, but we've got no way of getting him in it."

"He's right," Jo said. "Like that dick Gabriel said, Lucifer isn't going to step up to the edge and let us just push him in."

Sam shook his head, his expression solemn. "With me here, we have everything we need."

"Sam, you're a great hunter," Bobby said, "maybe the best, but even you can't beat Lucifer in a fight."

Sam grimaced. "I hope you're wrong, because that's exactly what I intend to do."

Dean frowned and tried to make sense of what he was saying. His brain felt slow, worn down by everything he'd been through and the pangs of grief he still felt for his father. An idea occurred to him and his indrawn breath stuck in his throat. Sam couldn't seriously be thinking _that_ , could he? He looked into Sam's eyes, determined, sad, and shook his head jerkily. "No!"

Sam's eyes were sympathetic as he said, "Yes, Dean."

"What?" Ellen asked, anger and worry in her voice. "What are you talking about?"

"Lucifer," Sam said. "There's only one way we're getting him into the cage, and that's if someone takes him there. He won't be tricked in. He won't go himself—he'd sooner die—so I have to literally drag him there."

Dean saw the moment Ellen understood what he was saying. Her eyes widened and she shook her head. "No. Not happening. Never in life."

"What?" Ash asked lethargically, apparently well on his way to drunk already. "What do you mean?"

"I am going to say yes," Sam said. "I will let Lucifer in and then I will overpower him and take him to Hell again."

Jo frowned. "But that means you'll…"

Sam reached across the table and laid his hand over hers. "Yes. It means I'll be going there with him."

Jo yanked her hand back. "No!"

"You can't seriously think we'll let you do that," Dean said, anger surging through him.

He expected anger in return, for his words of 'letting' to spur Sam's mulish nature, but he didn't get it. Sam merely shrugged and said, "I'm not asking permission. There's only one thing that'll stop me doing this, and that's if anyone can see it going wrong. I've proven that I don't always make the right decisions, so I am asking you all to be my judgment this time. I can't see how this can make things any worse for the world than they already are, but I might be wrong."

"How about the fact you might not be able to overpower him?" Bobby asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

Sam nodded slowly. "I've thought of that. I don't think it'll be a problem though. I did it before with Azazel, and I cast out Uriel."

"A demon and a seraph," Castiel said. "That's not the same as overpowering Lucifer. He's an archangel."

Sam smiled slightly. "Are you saying that because you really don't believe I can do it or because you just don't want me to do it?"

"Both," Bobby said, turning to Castiel. "Right?"

Castiel nodded and cast his eyes downward. "Yes. Both."

Sam drew a breath and said. "I get that. If it was any one of you, I'd be making the same arguments, but it doesn't change anything. If I can't overpower him, Lucifer will fight Michael. Gabriel said that'll happen anyway. At least this way we have a chance of winning. You need a better reason."

Ellen glared at him. "How about we don't want you to?"

Sam shook his head sadly. "That's not a good enough reason, Ellen. I'm sorry."

"But you promised me," she said, her voice strained. "You said you'd stay."

"I said I'd try," Sam corrected. "And I said if I couldn't, I'd say goodbye. This is me saying—"

"No!" she snapped. "Don't say it! Don't you dare!"

Sam fell silent.

"Is this about Dad?" Dean asked.

"In a way," Sam said and Dean sucked in a breath. "I know he'd expect no less from me. If he was here, he'd be willing to do it in a heartbeat. I feel the same."

"Punishment!" Ellen accused. "You're punishing yourself for your mistakes."

"Would you blame me if I was?" Sam asked, sounding genuinely curious.

"Yes," Ellen said firmly, the lie evident in her eyes.

"It's about the world," Sam said. "If any one of you can give me an alternative, a way to trap him without me being the one to do it, I'll take it. Can you?"

There was silence in the room. Dean looked down at the tabletop and searched his brain for anything, any other way to save the world without sacrificing his brother. He could think of nothing.

Nausea rolled in his stomach and he swallowed the saliva that flooded his mouth. There was no other way. They'd been searching for something from the minute Lucifer was freed, and this was the closest they'd come to a plan.

Sam was going to do it.

He lurched to his feet and raced for the back door. Yanking it open he rushed out into the cool air and emptied his stomach on the grass.

He felt a hand on his back, a warm, comforting touch, and his stomach heaved again. A glass of water was pushed into his hand and Sam said, "It's okay, Dean. It's going to be okay."

* * *

Sam felt sick, too, and it wasn't the sound of Dean's retching that did it. It was fear. He was afraid. He was doing his best to hide it from them all, but he wasn't sure he was successful. They all knew him too well.

Dean straightened and rinsed his mouth and then wiped it with the back of his hand.

"Feel better?" Sam asked.

Dean glared balefully at him and Sam muttered an apology. He knew this was hard on Dean, harder than it was on Sam himself perhaps because Dean, along with Ellen and Jo, Castiel and the others, would be the ones left behind. He knew how that felt and what that did to him. He wouldn't wish it on anyone, and if it wasn't the world in the balance, he would never subject them to it. He had no choice though. It was him or the world and no man's life was worth more than that.

Dean rinsed his mouth again and held the glass against his chest with a shaking hand. "You can't do this," he said hoarsely.

Sam wasn't sure if he meant Sam physically couldn't or if he couldn't do it to _him,_ but his answer was the same for both statements. "I have to."

Dean's hand whipped out and the glass smashed against the wall. "You _can't!"_ he shouted.

"Give me another way," Sam almost begged.

Dean shook his head. "You can't leave me again. This isn't like the other times. If you do this, there's no coming back. You'll be gone forever."

"Don't you think it's time?" Sam asked with a small smile. "How many times has my number been up now just for someone to pull me back?"

"It's not funny, Sam."

"I know," Sam said apologetically.

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell Dean he didn't want to do it. That he wouldn't, but he couldn't add to Dean's grief when it was over. Dean needed to think he was going into this because it was what he wanted to do. The truth was Sam was going into it by necessity. He was so afraid.

"I'll be okay."

"No," Dean said angrily. "You'll be in Hell. You don't know what it's like there, you can't understand. You'll be with Satan in a cage for eternity. How is that even remotely okay?"

Sam swallowed. He had some vague idea of Hell because he had felt Heaven's blades at Zachariah's hand. It would be worse with Lucifer, he was sure, and that was why he was so scared.

"After," he said, "when I'm gone, you have to do something for me…"

Dean's head snapped up. "You're _not_ doing it."

Sam ignored him. "You have to leave it alone. Don't try to get me back. It'll be too dangerous to screw with the locks on the door. You understand?"

"You're not doing it!" Dean said again.

"I am," Sam said. "With your blessing or without, it's going to happen. No one has given me a good enough reason not to."

"I can't give my blessing for something every part of me screams against!" Dean said passionately.

"And when I tell you this is what I need?" Sam asked. "When I tell you this will save Sonny and Mitch, little Russ, Ellen and Jo, Bobby and Ash, Castiel, Missouri, every other kid you saved in your life, everyone _we_ saved. Everyone you know and care about will be free to live their lives again. That will be my legacy, Dean. Can you really deny me that?"

Tears welled in Dean's eyes. "You're my brother," he whispered.

Sam smiled and grabbed the back of his neck, pulling his face down to rest on his shoulder. "That's not going to change, Dean. Just because I'm not here to tell you, you will always be my brother."

Dean began to cry and Sam knew the battle was over. Maybe Dean would never give his blessing, maybe he would never forgive Sam for doing this, but he wouldn't stop him, and that was what mattered.

* * *

Just over a week ago, Dean had his father and brother in his life. Within a few hours, they would both be gone. Once again, he'd be without his blood family. He didn't know how he was going to live like that again.

Ellen was inconsolable. She would not accept what was going to happen. Dean felt the same desire to refuse reality, but he knew now, he'd seen in Sam's eyes, how scared he was, and he couldn't make it any harder on him than it already was. He wished he could make Ellen see it, too, but that would make it worse later. She needed to think Sam was at peace with his choice and unafraid.

They were all in the bar, everyone but Ellen who had retreated to her bedroom to hide. Ash and Sam had already exchanged farewells, Ash wet around the eyes and Sam sympathetic. Now it was Jo's turn. She sobbed against Sam's chest and he smoothed her hair gently before pulling back and whispering something in her ear. She nodded tearfully and said, "Me, too. Always."

Sam held out a hand to Bobby to shake, and the older hunter cleared his throat gruffly as he shook it. "Thank you, Sam," he said in a constricted voice.

Sam smiled but didn't speak. Leaving Jo to Ash's comforting embrace, he walked back into the hall and Dean heard his gentle tap on Ellen's door.

"How're you doing?" Bobby asked Dean, laying a hand on his shoulder.

Dean glared at him. "How'd you think?"

"Sorry," Bobby said. "That was a stupid question."

"It's okay," Dean said automatically, when in truth everything was far from okay. He'd never felt so desperate, not even when the hounds came for him.

Sam came back into the room alone. Ellen's door was still firmly closed. Dean knew she was going to regret not taking this chance to say goodbye to Sam for the rest of her life, but there was nothing he could do; he'd already tried to talk to her and he'd received no response.

"I guess I should get on with it," Sam said, his hand gripping the door frame so tightly his knuckles were white.

"We'll come with you," Jo said.

He shook his head quickly. "No. I don't want you seeing this. You stay in here." He smiled. "Have a drink for me."

"I'm coming," Dean said.

Sam looked at him, seemed to see his resolve, and nodded. He looked to the corner where Castiel stood and said, "Ready, Cas?"

Castiel nodded. Sam gave the room one last look of longing and walked out of the door, Castiel and Dean following. Dean's footsteps felt heavy, each one a trial to take. His fear and preemptive grief seemed to weigh him down. Sam walked confidently though, quickly crossing the parking lot and entering the tornado decimated cornfield. He seemed calm now, as if the fear had passed and he was ready.

When they were in the middle of the field, Sam came to a stop and turned to Castiel. "Okay. Go for it."

Castiel laid a hand on his chest and closed his eyes. Sam flinched back as Castiel used his grace to wipe the sigils from Sam's ribs. When Castiel stepped back, Sam rubbed at his sternum.

At that moment, the bar door crashed open and Ellen raced out. "Stop!" she shouted.

Sam winced. "Ellen…"

She ran into him, her arms wrapping around him. She didn't speak at first; she just held him and cried. Then she pulled back and cupped his face in her hands, her eyes roving over his face as if memorizing him. When she released him, Sam bent his head and kissed her cheek. "Thank you."

"Please change your mind," she pleaded one last time.

Sam smiled sadly. "I can't. This is the world, Ellen."

She nodded, resigned, and said, "I love you so much. I always have."

"I always will," Sam replied. He looked from face to face and said, "You can go if you like. It might be safer."

They shook their heads and Sam nodded as if he'd expected the response.

"Okay," he said, clearing his throat and raising his voice as he called, "Lucifer, you son of a bitch! Get here now!"

Dean expected something more impressive that Lucifer's subtle arrival. One moment they were alone, looking around the field, and the next Lucifer was there.

"Well," Lucifer said, "This is unexpected. To what do I owe the invitation?"

Sam glanced at Dean and then fixed his eyes on Lucifer. "I want to say yes."

"And why would you do that?" Lucifer asked curiously.

"We want it over," Sam said. " _I_ want it over. We figure you'll win the fight. Let my family live and I'll say…"

Lucifer held up a hand and Sam ceased, his chest heaving. "Not bad," Lucifer said. "I'd maybe believe you if I didn't know you have those rings burning a hole in your pocket." He tutted. "You think you can beat me, Sam? I am an archangel. You're a human, albeit an impressive one."

"If I can't beat you, you've got nothing to worry about," Sam said.

Lucifer tapped his chin with one finger "You make a good point. I can't deny I'm tempted. A battle royale inside your head. It'll be nice to have even a little challenge. I get so bored…"

Dean held his breath, torn between praying Lucifer would do it and that he wouldn't. It was the fate of the world or the fate of Sam. He didn't know which to back.

"Okay," Lucifer said, nodding. "You're on. If you're sure, we'll have ourselves a little fun. "

Sam closed his eyes, took a breath, and said. "Yes. I say yes."

Lucifer spread his arms at his sides and bright blue-white light started to stream from him as a high-pitched noise cut through the air. Dean grabbed Ellen's arm and turned her away, his hand coming up to cover his eyes. When the noise ceased and the light disappeared, he turned back to Sam.

"Sammy…"

His face was twisted as if in pain. A hand came up to his forehead and fingertips pressed into his temples.

"Sam, honey, are you okay?" Ellen asked.

Sam's hand dropped to his side and he nodded. "Yeah, Ellen, I'm just fine. I'm not Sam, but I sure am fine."

Dean's heart sank. "Lucifer."

Sam's lips twisted into a mirthless smile and he nodded. "Oh yeah. Sammy's long gone."

There was a loud whipping sound, like sails in the wind, and Lucifer disappeared.

Dean bowed over and groaned.

"It's over," Ellen said desolately.

"No," Dean said, straightening and forcing confidence into his tone. "It's not over yet."

* * *

"Well, Sammy, this _is_ fun," Lucifer said, his voice gleeful.

" _Fuck you,"_ Sam snarled within his own mind.

He had fought and clawed at Lucifer from the moment the archangel had taken him over, but Lucifer's strength was immense.

Sam had been so sure he could to it, but he had failed. Casting Uriel out was like brushing away lint in comparison; overpowering Azazel was blowing a feather. Lucifer was a titanium wall to breach. There was just no way.

He knew the only reason he could communicate at all was because Lucifer was letting him. He could have stuffed Sam in an imagined vision or canceled out his awareness the way the other angels did with their vessels, but Lucifer wanted him to watch, he wanted him to see. Sam would be forced to witness the battle of the archangel brothers and he would surely feel every wound.

He hadn't been lying when he said he thought Lucifer would win, but that was worse than the alternative. If Michael won, Sam would be killed and it would be over. If Lucifer won, Sam would spend eternity trapped inside as the world was destroyed. He would see the end of humanity, the destruction of the demons, and perhaps the angels, too. He would surely be forced to watch the people he loved be murdered.

"I won't kill _them_." Lucifer said. "I'll make them live out their lives, watching the world around them be destroyed. So much more satisfying. A fitting punishment for their opposition."

" _I will end you,"_ Sam vowed.

"I can feel you trying, scrabbling away in there. It almost tickles."

Sam cursed.

"Now, we have a little time," Lucifer said. "Michael isn't due for a while yet. Shall we pop over to Lawrence, pay that sweet old lady Missouri a visit?"

Sam felt sickened. _"No!"_

"You sure? She's the one who set your father and therefore you on this path after all. If it wasn't for her, you'd have had a nice normal life with your grief-stricken father. You could have gone to college like Dean. There's no hiding it from me, Sam. I am inside you. I know what you know. I know what you feel. I know how much you wanted it."

" _I don't regret my life,"_ Sam said.

"Liar." Lucifer sighed. "Well, if you're not in the mood to let loose a little, I suggest we use this time for quiet reflection." He paused. "Or not. Let's have some fun…"

* * *

They were alone in the cemetery. Lucifer stood a little away from the wrought iron gates, looking around slowly at the crumbling and mossy graves.

"For all your talk of ancestry and familial love, you humans don't care much for the dead," Lucifer remarked.

Sam didn't respond. He would have pointed out that these graves were at least a hundred years old, old enough for the descendants to have no knowledge of names or to have moved from the area, but he had no desire to engage. It made him think of his mother though. Though there had been no body, there was a grave arranged by Mary's uncle, so there was a place to go to remember. Sam had never been there. He only knew about it because John once told him in a drunken rambling. Just because he didn't go there, tend her plot, didn't mean he didn't care, though. He didn't need to go to a granite marker to think about her. He could and did do that anytime and anywhere. He thought about her now, wondering what she would think about what he was doing.

"Not talking, Sam?" Lucifer asked. "Don't tell me you're still upset about the demons."

Sam wasn't. It felt callous and cruel, but he had more important things to worry about than the thirteen demons Lucifer had massacred, destroying their meat suits at the same time. Lucifer had punched out chests, gouged eyes and cut throats with Sam's own hands. Sam thought he could still feel the blood on him.

"The blood then?"

Lucifer had drained the demons of their blood and drunk it down. He'd explained to Sam that it was necessary; his body needed to be strengthened before the battle to hold Lucifer. Sam had hated it, feeling the slick liquid pour down his throat, but that was over now. What worried him now was what would happen next. The battle and consequences for the world.

"It will all be over soon," Lucifer said confidently. "He is here."

Sam recoiled within his own mind. He recognized the man walking toward them through the long grass. _"Dad!"_

"Not anymore," Lucifer whispered to him.

John Winchester came to a stop and appraised Lucifer carefully. The face was so familiar but so wrong. It wasn't his father's awareness that shone in the eyes. It was all Michael.

" _No,"_ Sam moaned.

"Oh, yes," Lucifer said, and then he spoke aloud, his voice carrying across the distance to his brother. "Michael."

"Lucifer."

Sam cried out within himself and clawed harder, desperate to be free. He felt Lucifer wince.

Michael frowned. "Your vessel is protesting."

"Only a little," Lucifer said. "Yours?"

"No. He is held within a memory of his family, completely unaware."

Lucifer nodded and started to speak but stopped quickly as there was a flutter on the air and Sam saw Dean. Castiel stood beside him, his eyes moving between Lucifer and Michael with a look of intimidated fear on his face.

"Dad?" Dean croaked.

"Not right now," Michael said.

" _Dean, run!"_ Sam shouted within his mind. _"He'll kill you."_

Dean's face crumpled as he turned to Sam. He seemed to be searching for something that wasn't there, perhaps Sam's awareness in the eyes, too. He didn't find it.

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised to see you," Michael said. "Winchesters have a weakness for family. I learned that from your father."

"You bastard," Dean growled.

Michael's expression darkened and a long sword slipped into his hand.

Castiel jumped in front of Dean, his arms spread wide. "Brother, no," he said, impassioned. "This is not the way of angels."

"Brother!" Michael snarled. "How dare you call me that after everything you have done? You are no better than him." He jerked his head towards Lucifer.

"What I did was for the protection of creation," Castiel said. "Humanity is our Father's greatest act. They must be protected."

"I do _my_ Father's will," Michael said.

"You're wrong," Castiel said. "He would want them protected."

Sam knew what was going to happen a moment before it did. He felt Lucifer's amusement as Michael thrust out his blade and sank it into Castiel's chest. He cried out, _"No!"_ at the same Dean did. Castiel fell back and ashy marks appeared on the grass in the shape of wings.

Dean stared down at the body of their friend, looking horrified. "He was your brother," he accused.

"Exactly," Michael agreed. "He _was_. And then he Fell and became nothing. Now he's meat." His lips curved into a cruel smile that Sam had never seen on his father's face before. "And now it's your turn." He lifted his blade and drew back his elbow. "Say goodbye to your brother, Dean."

Dean looked at Lucifer, and Sam saw the defeat in his eyes. He was done. Sam had failed him. The world was going to end. This was perhaps the most merciful fate for him. "Goodbye, Sammy," he said in a choked voice.

" _No!"_ Sam kicked and clawed and punched. He threw everything he had into it, all the strength he had built fighting demons, all the desperation he had felt when Dean was gone, all the love he had for his brother. He put it all into the fight and then he felt his lips move in an action that was not his. "No!" It was Lucifer and he knew what was happening.

"Yes!" Sam broke free. It was like surfacing for air after too long underwater. It was life. It was freedom. It was everything.

Just like the night in the Wyoming cemetery, Dean looked at him, no fear in his expression but something like hope. "Sammy?"

Sam panted with the struggle of holding Lucifer within his mind. "It's me."

"This changes nothing for you," Michael said in John's deep voice. "In fact, it makes it easier for me, Sam. I will kill you both with ease now."

Someone cleared his throat. "Well, this is interesting," Crowley said. All eyes fell on him where he had appeared behind Michael. "Hello, boys."

"Demon," Michael growled.

Crowley grinned and lifted his right hand. He was holding a beer bottle with a rag sticking out of the top. In his other hand he held a Zippo. He flicked it open and held the flame to the rag.

"Gasoline?" Michael asked, amused.

"Holy oil," Crowley said in a satisfied voice as he lobbed it at Michael. The fire erupted over archangel, and he threw back his head and bellowed with pain. A high pitched whine cut the air and Michael disappeared in flames.

"Crowley…" Dean said, seemingly without words.

"Yeah, I'm awesome," Crowley said. "Now, he'll be gone ten minutes tops. You might want to make with the swan dive now, Moose."

For a moment, Sam felt a chill of fear. Michael was gone for now, but he would return. Who would protect Dean from him when he was gone? But then movement caught his eyes. Castiel's eyes were opening and he was looking around. He looked stunned and a name formed on his lips. "Father."

Sam saw it all then, as if in a vision; he knew how Dean's life would be now. Ellen, Jo, Sonny, Bobby, all people who would love him and make it right after Sam was gone. Castiel would protect him. Together, they would all save Dean. That was their mission now. Sam's was over.

Was it demon blood or Lucifer's feather touch of omniscience that told him? He didn't know. He just knew that Dean would live. Live, love and, one day, be happy

He smiled at his brother and, still fighting to keep Lucifer locked inside, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the rings. They felt even heavier than before. He threw them down onto the grass and closed his eyes. His voice was strong as he chanted the Enochian. _"_ _Bvtmon...Tabges...Babalon"_

He heard a dull roar and opened his eyes to see a yawning hole in the ground.

"Sammy," Dean said desperately.

Sam looked at him, smiled and then turned away.

He stood at the mouth of the abyss and he felt calm. He was at peace despite the fact Lucifer was pummeling him from the inside to be free. He let himself tip forward, gravity and the pull of the cage reaching for him and dragging him down.

He felt no fear though. He was brave.

* * *

 **So… I don't know what to say apart from sorry. Make sure to come back for the epilogue.**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	23. Epilogue

_**Epilogue**_

 _Dear Ellen,_

 _I don't know how to even start to say this. Right now, you're in your room, a handful of steps away from me, and yet I cannot come to you and say the words I can write. I am a coward._

 _Thank you for everything you have done for me. Because of you and Jo, I have memories of the years without Dean that I can cherish. With what is to come for me, I am more grateful than ever for those memories. You showed me it was safe to feel even after he was gone. Because of your love, I can love, too._

 _Know that where I go, I am taking a piece of you all with me. That thought makes me feel stronger._

 _Always,_

 _Your Sam._

xXx

 _Dean,_

 _I don't know when you'll read this. I don't know if it will bring comfort straight away or if you'll save it for a day you need it._

 _What I do know is that you'll leave, just like I did. I get it. You know I couldn't stay either. But don't make my mistakes. Don't leave Ellen behind completely. She's going to need you. I know you won't make the other mistakes I made because you're much stronger._

 _If you can do one more thing for me, make it this: don't try to save me. The Cage is too dangerous to mess with. If I get free, Lucifer will, too. You can't let that happen._

 _Wherever you end up next, whatever life you lead, I know it will be awesome. You're the best man I have ever known, Dean, and I have known some greats._

 _I want to say thank you, too. Thank you for making me feel again after Dad. Thank you for coming back even after I was such an asshole. Thank you for fighting for me so many times. Most of all, thank you for letting me go._

 _Your brother always,_

 _Sam._

xXx

Cold air rasped into his lungs, and for a moment, he just lay there. Then, when his breaths were even, other things came to him. He was lying on grass. It was raining. The cold drops settled on him, soaking through his clothes to chill his skin.

He rolled over and looked up at the starry sky. The sight was a miracle but terrifying, because if he was back, that meant…

"Dammit, Dean," he groaned.

"Not so much Dean as me," a voice said.

Sam scrambled to his feet and looked at the archangel standing opposite him.

"Gabriel?" he breathed.

The archangel smiled. "The one and only."

"Why?" Sam asked.

Gabriel's lips pressed into a thin line. "Because, this time, you really have been punished."

 **So… What do you think? I promised Jenjoremy I'd bring him back, and I did. I cried writing this. I cried editing it. The letters were the hardest part of the whole story for me, as I had to** _ **really**_ **get into Sam's head to do it, to make the words his own. This is what he wanted to say.**

 **This story would never have been plotted, written and posted without three amazing women. Jenjoremy, Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2. They have done so much for this story and I am beyond grateful.**

 **Thank you all for reading, reviewing, and supporting the story. I appreciate it more than I can say.**

 **Until the next story…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


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